Crime and Chocolate
by Jade R. Raven
Summary: Emily and Reid work a case together; it ends with a gunshot. His world is turned upside down, and the next few months will change everything...Prentiss/Reid. 24/24 chapters up. Complete!
1. Chapter 1: Emily

_A/N: First things first guys; this is a Reid/Prentiss story. Because they need so much love it's not even funny. Be ye warned, however; there will not be much fluffyness, and no sudden falling-into-bed. I've tried to make this as in-character as possible. Let's hope it turned out okay. XD_

_This story is about 24 chapters long. I will be updating twice a week, Monday and Thursday. Because this story also features JJ, I will be mostly disregarding the events of Season Six. But all fanfiction is an alternate universe anyway, right? Right!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds._

_Hope you enjoy!_

_**XxXxX**_

**Chapter 1: Emily**

_**XxXxX**_

It all happened so fast.

"Emily, cover me," he threw over his shoulder, and then approached the unsub, hands raised. Harriet Summers (paranoid schizophrenic; shot anyone she happened to find in an unmarked white van) was trying to stare him down. She couldn't, of course; one eye was being rubbed at by her left hand. Her right was preoccupied keeping her pistol aimed between his eyes. His own gun was strapped to his waist, a useless lump of metal and powder.

"Dammit, Reid," he heard Prentiss growl.

Looking back, it was hard to pinpoint his motives in those last few minutes. It was true Summers was cornered (in her own home even; the serial murderess was propped up against a dusty treadmill in what may have been a rec room in happier times), and it was true that, with the rest of their team on the way, she was outnumbered. But Summers was also something else; a very ill, very lonely woman. The towels duct-taped across all her windows were proof enough of that. She'd been abandoned by her husband and children. She was in her early fifties. Her eyes were the most desperate, and yet clearest shade of blue.

Later, Spencer Reid would remember and think, _'None of this would have happened if she hadn't looked so much like my mother.'_

Somewhere in the street, someone was playing _Low Rider_ on their car stereo.

"Mrs. Summers," he said. "My name is Dr. Spencer Reid. I-"

"Fascist!" she hissed, and the gun did a nervous jitterbug in her hands. "You work for Them. Came to finish all this ding-dong at last?"

"I'm here to help you. I know people who can work with your condition." _Better than most_, he added internally.

"_With my condition?_ With my condition! Oh, I bet you can help those of us with MY condition!" she yelled at the walls, as if at eavesdroppers lurking within. Reid took another small step-forward and she jumped, shrieking. "Don't come any closer! I'll get a bullet in you before you get anything in me!"

"I'm unarmed, Mrs. Summers," he said softly.

Behind him, Prentiss sighed, because she saw what he saw -sanity, if only a glimmer of it, in Summers' eyes. She'd frozen, glanced him up and down -and then seemed puzzled. As if he'd pulled off a complicated magic trick instead of pointing out the obvious. Come one, come all to see the amazing Spenzini, watch in amazement as he makes government conspiracies disappear before your very eyes! Ta-da!

Summers lowered her gun.

"Get it off her, Reid," he heard Prentiss whisper. Outside, _Low Rider_ was drowned out by the approach of sirens.

Summers spoke before he could: "If you're not gonna kill me, how could a commie string bean like you help me?"

The squad cars were parking; he only had to stall for a little while longer... "My mother is schizophrenic too, Mrs. Summers. She functions quite well, with the aid of doctors. I can get you into their care, if you wanted." _Two lies and one truth_, he thought dizzily.

She was eyeing him, "Your mama is like me?"

"Yes."

A loud crash; Morgan was breaking down the door. Summers ignored it, "And do you...love your mama?"

"...I..." he swallowed, and switched tacts. "I know you haven't seen your children in over ten months. Two daughters and a son? You can see-"

Prentiss saw his mistake before he did.

"Reid!" she yelled, at the same moment Summers was wailing "I KNEW IT! YOU'VE BEEN HIDING THEM FROM ME, I WANT MY BABIES BACK YOU GOVERNMENT PIGS!"

"Mrs. Summ-!" he gasped.

The gun was raised and fired; he was thrown backwards into the hallway.

But not by the bullet.

_**XxXxX**_

For Emily Prentiss, those last few moments were very clear. Almost choreographed, and she'd long since mastered all the steps. Reid wasn't even supposed to be here with her; he'd been told to work his genius mojo back at the police station. But he'd come out to play with the big boys yet again, and now here he was throwing himself in the line of fire..._again_.

Goddamn, it really was like choreography, wasn't it?

She heard the team coming, the unmistakable sounds of Morgan tackling something, and knew they would get there in time to catch the unsub, but not to stop what was about to happen. Reid mentioned children and Summers hopped right back on the crazy train. She was raising the gun; Reid and his motormouth hadn't noticed yet. He knew too much for his own good, but she knew some things too, and one of them was that if a bullet ever hit that skinny body it would probably shatter into a million pieces. He was too young, too vulnerable and too... _Reid._

But Emily?

Well, she could take it. She could always take it.

Springing up from her crouched position in the hall, she grabbed her young team member by the collar and tossed him behind her with enough force to make him choke. He landed on his back with a yelp that was eaten by the sound of Summers' pistol.

A black and splintering hole opened up in Emily's chest. Pain hit her like a sudden overwhelming light -and then there was darkness.

The team made it up the stairs just in time to see her crumple in the rec room door.

_**XxXxX**_

It was as if the world had become a really cheesy montage.

For the most part the darkness stretched on, but sometimes she was able to draw enough strength to force open her eyes. Light hit them like shards of glass, but still she struggled to focus. She had to see. She had to know that Reid was okay.

The first thing she saw was an EMT...and she felt herself being carried, lifted onto a stretcher...or was she already on the stretcher? She didn't know. Her eyelids dragged down like weights.

"Are you awake?" A young, panicky voice asked. "Miss Prentiss, you're going to be-"

The next time she was able to force herself awake, she saw Hotch. He was sitting somewhere to her left, and from the way his body was slightly rocking she knew they must be in an ambulance. His arms were crossed and his scowl was just as present as ever. The image was so familiar it was almost absurd. She could have laughed.

Except...oh, motherballs.

Waving her hand a little, she caught Hotch's attention. He leaned in close enough for her to smell his aftershave, and she managed to whisper: _"Feels like I'm drowning."_

The lines in his face deepened.

"Doctor," he said to someone she couldn't see. "My agent's lung has just collapsed. Would you mind getting off your ass and doing your job?"

Prentiss stared. Gee, she thought, Hotch said a cuss. He must really care.

The young EMT -too young, why were all these fricken young people in the field?- let out a flustered yelp, and scrabbled to find the right tube or needle or whatever it was he was going to stick in her. Her superior agent loomed overhead, and it was under his dark but protective stare that she slipped away yet again.

"Hold on, she's awake...Emily, can you hear me?"

She was definitely on a stretcher this time. Inside too...the overhead lights bounced off the white walls with obnoxious heat. A hospital, then. How could anyone think so much white could be soothing? It was like being trapped inside a light bulb.

Hotch again, leaning into her line of vision. "You're about to go into surgery. You're going to be fine."

There was a tube down her throat. It was making an awful sucking noise, and it hurt like hell, but hell apparently wasn't as painful as a bullet to the chest. Still, she had to know.

"Rrr...reee...?"

"Reid's fine. He was totally unharmed." Hotch said at once.

For a brief moment, relief overcame the pain. But only briefly.

Hotch's head seemed to fading; she was being rolled away.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

She wanted to say thank you.

...

_**XxXxX**_

Reid kept waiting for someone to blame him. At first with dread -Rossi's disappointment, Hotch's cold but passionate disapproval, he awaited them like a child awaits admonishment from their parents.

Two ambulances were called, one for him (what a joke...he'd barely hit his head on the way down. The EMT just gave him a flat look and an ice pack), and one for her...Hotch announced he would be the one to ride in, and the team watched in silence as they were loaded up and driven away.

But the speechless moments became minutes, and when no one started pointing the well-earned finger, his dread changed first to confusion, and then to a strange breed of anger. Why _weren't_ they angry with him? He'd clearly fucked up...or were they really going to baby him so much as to let him get away with it? As if it wasn't bad enough he was always kiddy-cornered...

"You did the best you could," Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yeah, don't go all emo on us now kid," Morgan added, wearing a ghost of his usual smirk.

Reid gaped, blinking at both his fellow agents. The three of them were perched in the back of the second ambulance, waiting for JJ to finish up with the press. "Wha-?"

Morgan shook his head, "Profilers, remember? Listen, Prentiss is going to be fine. She's a tough lady. You remember that, okay?"

"And what if she's not?" his voice broke. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Then you deal," Rossi said, without a missing a beat.

"That's another thing us profilers do," Morgan stood, fixing his gaze somewhere out in space. "We deal."

Eventually JJ managed to fight off the crowd, and they all piled into their black SUV to meet with Hotch at the hospital. When they arrived she was already in surgery, and he was folded into one of the waiting room chairs, his hand hanging clasped between his legs. Nurses and doctors rushed all around, barely paying the odd group anything more than a few curious glances. How is she, they asked. Not good, he said, but there's no reason to believe she won't pull through. The rest of their conversation was stilted and seldom, and during Reid realized that he was not the only BAU member bearing guilt. Though she tried to hide it, JJ blamed herself.

It was easy to deduce her thought process. If she hadn't let him leave the station, this wouldn't have happened.

He grimaced; leave it to JJ to assume responsibility for his actions. It was good that Diana had talked William Reid out of having more children; he had all the brothers and sisters he could stand right here in the workplace.

At some point Garcia and Kevin joined them, the former nearly beside herself.

"What's going on? What happened?" she demanded, and they explained. He didn't miss the quick look Garcia shot him out of the corner of her glasses -logically, she only did so out of concern for his well-being, but he could not fight down the sudden intuition that she, like all the others, was secretly blaming him.

Hours passed, until finally a doctor with a clipboard approached them. Hotch and Reid were the first to stand.

"The surgery?" Hotch said, getting straight to the point. Reid wished he was able to speak without his voice cracking.

"It went well," the Doctor said. Behind him, Reid heard everyone sigh. "Of course she'll have to stay here for a few days yet, and rest at home will be crucial. You people are her..." he gave them a sweeping glance. "...work buddies, I assume?"

"Work buddies? We're the FBI and we're reduced to 'work buddies'?" grumbled Rossi; but the relief was clear on his face.

"Can we see her?" Reid finally managed to blurt out.

The doctor gave him a hard look, and then: "Not just yet. It is best you all return tomorrow. She won't be fully awake 'til then anyway."

"I'll stay overnight with her," Hotch announced. "You all go home and sleep for tomorrow. That's an order." He added when he saw Garcia and Morgan open their mouths.

The group sighed again - this time of regret, and began to disperse. Reid stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed down the hall, speaking to no one.

_**XxXxX**_

His apartment building was old. The brick was faded and the neighbours still hung their laundry out their windows, but Reid didn't especially mind. He thought it was almost picturesque; a photograph of a time he hadn't been a part of. Morgan could have his four properties, but Reid? All Reid needed was a roof over his head and a place to put his books.

It was just dark when his old car chugged to a stop in front of the apartment. Even without rolling down his windows, he could hear a TV blaring somewhere (one woman on his floor was practically deaf, and always had her stories on at full volume). Otherwise, the street was quiet. He twisted his key out of the ignition and slumped in the dark, squeezing his eyes shut.

He was aching for the needle.

It was a weary sort of ache...one he supposed he might have for the rest of his life. That was just the way dilaudid worked. It stayed with you forever. A lot like images of the dead. A lot like guilt.

"Get over it," he muttered. It wasn't like he even _had_ the drugs anymore anyway. They'd been flushed down the toilet long ago. He remembered it well; the shaking had lasted all night. Besides, even if he COULD shoot up, getting high wouldn't make Prentiss...

The car door crashed open without him even being aware that he was touching it, but still he didn't get up. He didn't want to go inside until the craving had passed. That would contaminate the place, somehow. He breathed deep...and caught the scent of a nearby barbeque.

His stomach rumbled.

He breathed again, salivating as the smell of roasting meat filled his lungs. The ache began to subside...replaced by an equally urgent one in his stomach that coffee would not subdue. He was so hungry...how had he not noticed before?

_Food,_ he thought, and was able to push all else aside...for now. He dragged himself out of the car, into the building and up the stairs, barely taking in the latest graffiti in the stairwell. The hall was barely lit, as usual. The landlord never changed the bulbs. The smell of the barbeque was long gone, abandoned in the darkening night, but still his thoughts lingered on the leftover chicken he had in the back of the fridge. Or maybe he felt more like noodles...shame he didn't know how to barbeque because a steak really sounded-

He almost tripped over his own feet as he skidded to a stop.

The hall was silent.

"I wondered when you'd get here," said the bulky figure sitting at his apartment door. The shadows of the evening concealed the man's face, but Reid knew that soft, insinuating voice anywhere. It was all but always present in his dreams, underscoring the loneliest of his nightmares. He was vaguely aware that his jaw was hanging open, but found he didn't care.

"I forgot how the hours at the BAU are," the man continued, forcing as much wistfulness into the words as they could stand. Beefy but oddly delicate hands were tucking a paperback in his jacket, making a show of the simple gesture.

"When did you...get back?" said Reid.

He waved off the question as if it were a bothersome fly. Heaving himself to a standing position, he stepped into the light. The lopsided smile Reid knew so well was plastered on his face, his arms spread as if in welcome.

"Good to see you again, Spencer," said Jason Gideon. "You going to invite me in?"

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: If you've seen the episode where Gideon leaves, you'll see that Spencer has a way old-school car. So I gave him a way old-school apartment to go with it. Hope no one minds that._

_Reviews make my day, so please leave one if you've read. See you next Thursday!_


	2. Chapter 2: The Job

**XxXxX**

**Chapter 2: The Job**

**XxXxX**

As a rule, Reid didn't have guests. His apartment was small, cluttered, and, he imagined, utterly boring to anyone without three PhDs. Books and papers were piled everywhere, eating up space on the furniture. While he owned a TV, it hadn't been turned on in months, and a thick film of dust gave the screen a misty crystal ball look. The few DVDs he owned were piled next to his coffee table. On top of the stack was _The 40 Year Old Virgin_, a prank birthday gift from Morgan a few years back (once he'd actually tried to sit through the whole movie, but between the crude humor and the, well, depressingness of it all...). When Gideon sauntered in that night, Reid cast a despairing glance around his abode. Any profiler could see that his social life was seriously lacking. This was not something he wanted Gideon to know.

Gideon was looking around too. "Nice place," he offered. Then he strolled into the kitchen.

Reid was flustered; he puttered around the small rooms turning on light switches, hoping to make the place look a little less dead. Then he moved to follow Gideon into the kitchen- only to turn back two seconds later. He snatched _The 40 Year Old Virgin_ and stuffed it under a chair cushion. Having it out in the open was just...too much.

"Have you eaten?" the older man called.

"Ahh...no," he straightened up and brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. "I have leftovers...I think. You can have some..."

Gideon's scoff was muffled through the walls.

"When was the last time you had a real meal Spencer?"

"Yesterday," he lied.

He didn't buy it. "No wonder you're so skinny."

This statement was followed by the clanging of pots and pans. Reid yelped and rushed into the kitchen, where Gideon was raiding one of his cupboards.

"What are you doing?"

"Making you dinner, what does it look like?" He was frowning at two different size pans; he set the smaller one down and seemed satisfied. "In the mood for stir-fry?"

Reid opened his mouth to complain, to demand some answers, maybe even to chew his once-mentor out for just waltzing back into his life like this.

It took him a second to realize he was drooling.

A second later, his stomach let out a long, mournful growl.

"...Stir-fry sounds good." he conceded.

Gideon gave him an appreciative smirk -the kind he used to dole out whenever Reid pulled off a particularly complex chess move- and set to work.

It turned out Jason Gideon was just as at home in the kitchen as he was in the BAU. Reid settled himself onto a barstool he kept by the counter for washing dishes, and watched with awe. It seemed to take mere minutes for Gideon to puzzle out all the ingredients available in the Reid household, and even less time for him to figure out how to work all the appliances. Vegetables were chopped into uniform squares, and oils and spices were thrown in with a gusto Reid had never before associated with cooking. No recipe seemed to be needed. And it smelled delicious.

He crossed his arms across his stomach, hoping to stifle any rumblings.

"You'll like this; I'm an excellent cook," Gideon said, matter-of-fact.

Reid pressed his lips together, trying to remain impassive. But the thick heat rolling from the stove, along with the mouthwatering scent, was very, very hard to resist. How long _had_ it been since he'd eaten a real meal...?

He had to distract himself, or he would get caught up in his hunger and forget all about the answers he wanted. Hell, knowing Gideon, that was probably the plan.

"Where have you been all this time?" he asked.

"Around."

"Could you be a little more specific?"

The lopsided smile returned. "Oh, I just felt like taking a drive."

Not very helpful.

"Why haven't you been answering your cell phone?"

"I threw it away before I left."

That hit him with surprising force. He was seized with the mental image of the battered old cell lying in a junkyard somewhere, ringing on and on, the name Spencer splayed across the screen. His feet became very interesting; they distracted him from his private humiliation.

"...You could have written."

To this, Gideon apparently had no answer. Good.

When the food was ready, a big heaping plate was pushed under his nose. He glanced up to see the older man spoon what was left onto a much smaller dish. He noticed him looking, and nodded his head with another small smirk.

"Bon appetite," he said.

Needing no further prompting, Reid snatched his fork and started shovelling. He was going to get a cramp from eating so fast, but it was hard to care; the older man hadn't lied, he _was_ a good cook.

Someone's car alarm went off in the parking lot; the deaf neighbour was watching _Grey's Anatomy_, and they could hear every piece of melodramatic dialogue. It wasn't until Reid was starting to feel uncharacteristically full that Gideon spoke.

"How is the work?" he asked, folding his hands under his chin and fixing Reid with a thoughtful stare. "I've been wondering about the others...how are they doing?"

He'd been trying to recall the last time he'd had food this good. When the other man's words reached his ears, it hit him; the last time he'd eaten out at a restaurant was when Prentiss caught him trying to live off coffee again, and took him out for lunch as 'punishment.' She called it that, anyway. That was so long ago. She still had the bruises from Cyrus that day, only just beginning to yellow with age. He stopped chewing; all at once the delicious food seemed to be seasoned with guilt.

"Spencer?"

"They...Em...Prentiss was shot today." He didn't like saying it. It made him feel sick, and Gideon would probably be offended if he threw up...

"It happens." Gideon said, sounding unconcerned. "Is she alive?"

"Yes...but..." he swallowed; was he really going to start bouncing his insecurities off Gideon again? Like he used to when he was still practically a kid?

_Yes_, his mouth seemed to decide, _yes he was_: "It's my fault. I wasn't supposed to be there...I antagonized the unsub without meaning to. She was too unstable to be dealt with verbally. Prent- Emily put herself in harms way to protect me. And this isn't the first time she's done that." he added, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

The older man regarded him for a moment. Then: "Bull."

At first he was surprised; then, that odd brand of anger swept through him again. Why wasn't anybody angry at him? He knew being a profiler meant having a handle on your emotions, but weren't they allowed some leeway when a team-mate -a _friend_- was _shot_? It happens, says Gideon. You'll deal, says Rossi. When did everybody get so cold?

He remembered Prentiss, bruised but grinning at him over lunch. Again he fought off nausea.

"I think I'm done," he said, pushing away his plate. All his hunger was gone.

"Spencer, it wasn't your fault," Gideon said, not moving. "In the field things sometimes just get of hand-"

"No offense, but you'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you?" he snapped.

The older man fell silent, looking at him lips parted. For once in his life, he looked genuinely wounded. Reid decided to feel bad about it later.

"I'm going to bed," he muttered. Then he hesitated. "You can stay if you want. I can have the couch." Okay, so maybe he was already feeling bad.

Gideon was smirking again; it didn't take much for him to bounce back. "Much obliged. I think I'll turn in as well. Give me your plate...may as well save this for lunch tomorrow."

Fifteen minutes later Reid had brushed his teeth, changed into the ratty sweats and t-shirt he wore to bed, and shoved all the books off his couch. The old loveseat was sagging at the one end, but otherwise it was perfectly comfortable. As long as he curled up a bit. Okay, so maybe it was a bit cramped, but this was his first time playing host, and he was pretty sure banishing your guest to sleep on a lumpy couch was bad manners. Gideon disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door behind him, and it wasn't 'til after Reid was nestled under his spare blanket that he realized Gideon probably didn't bring any pajamas. For a moment he wondered what the older man would be wearing to bed...and then the genius part of him decided it would be best not to consider it if he ever planned on sleeping in his own room again.

The deaf neighbor was finally going to bed -the TV was shut off and she was shouting goodnight to her bird, Thatcher. Thatcher answered with the first of a series of squawks that would last all through the night. Routine as usual.

Except not exactly. Why was Gideon back now, years later? Why was Reid, who had been so angry, letting him back inside so soon? Maybe he really was weak. He thought of how easily he had 'forgiven' William when _he_ abandoned him...for a reason that didn't truly make any sense. Truth be told he just didn't like being angry...was that weak? Morgan might say so...Rossi wouldn't...Hotch would probably just scowl.

With a groan, he rolled over and mused on more important things.

Prentiss.

It occurred to him she wouldn't blame him either. It wasn't in her nature to lay blame. At most she'd just wisecrack about it. Possibly declare he owed her, and never expect that debt to be paid. It would just be a joke. Haha, nudge nudge, remember that time I took a bullet for you? Good times.

He grimaced.

**XxXxX**

Reid awoke the next morning with a crick in his neck, his legs tangled in blanket, and the sun in his eyes. Not the best way to start the day. For a few seconds he couldn't remember exactly why he was sleeping on the couch, but the sound of a running shower reminded him.

_'I never said he could use my shower.'_ he mused. If Gideon had asked, he would have let him. Not because the older man was welcome but because it just wasn't worth it to refuse him. And because (he admitted to himself), he thought maybe if he was nice to him, he might actually learn something about this man he'd once considered a father. But he doubted it.

He'd slept well enough -except the meal from the night before hadn't sat all that well, and his stomach felt sore and raw (he really shouldn't have eaten so much so late). His legs were a bit cramped, just like his neck, and he felt that normal just-woke-up feeling of uncleanness that he could do nothing about because his bathroom had been invaded by a rogue FBI agent. What a morning.

Morning...He looked quickly at the clock, afraid he had slept in too late. But it was only quarter to seven. If he hurried, he could sneak in a visit to Prentiss before work.

He stumbled across the apartment to his bedroom -and _very_ carefully checked that the bathroom door was closed before he went inside. He tried to change quickly, afraid that Gideon would suddenly emerge in nothing but a towel, and then things would just be _too_ weird. His life had gotten weird enough lately, thanks.

Once he had his work clothes on, he was a bit torn. Should he knock on the bathroom door, let him know he was going...? Or should he just leave? He stood in his bedroom, looking from one door to the next like a cartoon character. Eventually he settled on leaving a (rather frosty, if he did say so himself) note behind. Then he crumpled that note and penned a much more polite one. Maybe he didn't really want Gideon around right now, but it wasn't like he wanted him to _leave_ either.

_'I wish there was statistics for this sort of thing,'_ he thought gloomily. In the bathroom, Gideon had apparently stepped out of the shower, and had begun to sing while towelling himself off.

Reid took that as his cue to leave.

_**XxXxX**_

When he got to the Hospital, he found he wasn't the only agent sneaking in before work hours.

"Boy wonder!" Garcia cried, throwing her arms around his neck- or trying to, at least. The height difference had her slumped against his chest. He backed up a little, both stunned and embarrassed. His co-workers didn't usually hug him unless he was recently in peril.

Oh wait. He guessed he kinda was.

"I'm so glad you came. I know what getting shot is like, and I was going to kick some ass if we weren't all here to support her. Sans JJ the baby-ridden, of course." The stout woman was saying. "Look! Morgan got her flowers."

Reid looked over Garcia's multi-coloured head to see Agent Morgan with a small bouquet of button-mums in his hand. The beefy man was standing as if he didn't know what to do with himself.

"Sick girls need flowers," he said, by way of explanation. "How you doin', man?"

"I've been better."

"Yeah...I know."

"Where's Kevin?" he asked Garcia quickly, hoping to change the subject.

"You mean my adorably rotund lover? Honey, please. He's dead to the world 'til noon. Chocolate Thunder over here is standing in for him." Reid supposed that meant Morgan.

"I see the gangs all here," Rossi said, coming up behind them. He too carried flowers. All of a sudden Reid felt really cheap. Did he even pass a flower shop on the way here..? "Shall we go in and frighten all the medical staff?"

"Yes, lets." Garcia said, and in they went, leaving the morning sunshine behind.

When they got to Prentiss' room, they saw two things. One, that Prentiss herself was awake, and two, that Hotch was not. Their superior agent was sitting bolt upright with his arms crossed, looking exactly the same as ever...except that his eyes happened to be shut. His shoulders rose and fell ever so slightly.

"Poor sweetheart!" Garcia said, bustling forward to get a closer look. "He must have been awake all night."

"Babygirl, don't call Hotch 'sweetheart.' It's just not right."

"Derek, don't be jealous. It's not attractive."

"How are you feeling?" Reid asked Prentiss.

"Oh I'm fine," she said, looking at Hotch with all the others. "It's so weird...he was that way when I woke up. You think he sleeps like that at home?"

"You think he goes home?" Rossi raised a brow.

"Should we wake him up?" Garcia asked.

"Let him sleep," Prentiss leaned back into her pillows, letting exhaustion show on her face for just a second- and in the next, it was gone, replaced by her usual sardonic grin. Reid noticed the blip. "I gotta say though, people don't lie when they talk about hospital food. Any of you willing to smuggle in some scotch?"

"I'll see what I can do," Rossi chuckled. Then both men presented her with their flowers. Reid stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. As usual, in the social situation, all he could think of to say was statistics. Hey guys, did you know that in the past decade 1500 Americans have died annually from unintentional gunshot wounds? No.

So he let them exchange their pleasantries, content to keep to the sidelines. But then something strange happened. Prentiss looked at Rossi, and Rossi looked at Morgan, and both men nodded. They started to leave the room, dragging a protesting Garcia with them. It all happened so quickly that it took Reid a few moments to realize they were now (save for sleeping Hotch) alone.

She was looking at him. No longer smiling. "Sit." she said, patting the side of her bed.

He hesitated, then sat. She took one of his hands. For once he didn't flinch away from physical contact...it didn't seem quite so repellent when it was her hands, for some reason. It had been that way after what Cyrus did, too, and he'd never really thought about why. Now he acknowledged it, and dismissed it just as quickly. Maybe he was just getting better with people. Er, bit by bit.

"Reid," she said, tone serious. "What happened yesterday was not yo-"

"What's it gonna take for it to be my fault? Do I have to push you in front of a truck myself, or...?"

"I'm serious. These things just come with the job."

"With your job in particular, it seems."

"And yours," she added. Her eyes flickered down to his sleeve, and he stiffened. She didn't seriously think he still...?

"But you manage to move past them just fine," she finished, putting his suspicions to rest.

"...I'm still sorry," he mumbled, after a beat.

"Don't worry about it," she said. Her voice told him that was all that was going to be said on the matter. He wished he was actually capable of winning an argument with his co-workers.

"I- we have to go now. Duty calls," he struggled to smile at her. "We'll probably be back tomorrow morning, if you don't mind."

"I'd love some company. Make sure Rossi makes good on the scotch."

"I'll bring some flowers too." He wasn't sure why he needed to say that, but he felt she might think less of him if he didn't.

To his surprise, her face fell. "Oh...look, don't tell Morgan and Rossi this, but I'm not actually all that wild about flowers. They make me sneeze." She seemed almost embarrassed, though he couldn't see why. He himself was allergic to latex, which was no cause for embarrassment.

"I'll just have to think of a different gift then," he said. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she agreed.

Thirty paces away from the hospital, he suddenly recalled a conversation he and Prentiss had a long time ago.

He made a mental note to pick up some chocolate on the way home from work.

**XxXxX**

"Hotch!" he said, bringing his computer-chair spin to a halt. "You're back. Finally woke up?"

Aaron Hotchner had just lurched into the BAU, his expression grave and his eyes fixed on Reid. He brushed past all the other agents, ignoring a taunt about catnapping from Morgan, and stopped short at Reid's desk.

He suddenly had a very bad feeling.

"Hotch..? What's the matter..?"

"Listen, Reid, whatever she says is out of my hands. I did my best to defend you-"

"Woah woah, what's all the drama for?" Morgan cut in, leaping up from his own desk. "Hotch, what _who_ says?"

The older seemed very weary all of a sudden, and before he could answer, a droll, female voice sounded out over the room.

"Agent Spencer Reid?" Erin Strauss called. "A moment in my office, please." And then she disappeared down the hallway. Reid's throat locked.

"Hotch..."

"She's completely biased, I'm going to file a complaint against her for this." Hotch was saying, while Morgan just seemed to be repeating 'oh shit.' "It's best you don't keep her waiting. I'm sorry Reid, I'll try and negate this as soon as possible."

He felt himself nodding, and then he was walking towards the office. He caught Agent Anderson looking at him with deep sympathy, and hurried on with his head down.

The inside of the office was brightly lit -not at all the gothic cave one could almost expect. Strauss herself was behind her desk, her hands folded under her chin...rather like Gideon. It didn't make him feel any better.

"Agent Reid," she said. "Sit."

He sat.

"So," she began. "Emily Prentiss was shot yesterday."

"Yes ma'am..."

"That girl is reckless. I have no doubt part of this unfortunate incident was of her own doing. But your involvement is just that much more...unfortunate." She gave him a hard look. He swallowed.

"Ma'am, none of this was Agent Prentiss' fault-"

"I have no time for chivalry, Agent Reid," she snapped. "Not that you exactly have a record for such. Let me see...this is the second time Prentiss in particular has been injured in the field due to your...emotiveness...and only the latest in a long trend of you putting yourself and others in danger. And why do you do this?"

"If you could let me explain-"

"Attachment to the unsub. Such as your defense of that school shooter, or your bizarre decision to save that perverted teenager," her eyes glinted. "I hope you know this bureau is not designed to coddle the scum of the Earth, Agent Reid."

He gaped at her; how could she be so unfair? "With...with all due respect, isn't it our standard to always resolve situations peacefully if possible?"

"Yes, but not when it's _im_possible." she seemed to be enjoying herself. "I have no use for an Agent who doesn't know the difference."

"But-!"

"You are hereby suspended." he could see all her pearly white teeth now; but he could barely hear her words. "For a month, at least. Hand over your credentials. I expect your desk to be cleaned out within the hour."

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: Oh snap! That Strauss is always up to no good. _

_Just because I know some people will be wondering, Hotch called his sister-in-law and asked her to watch Jack overnight while he stayed with Prentiss. He's always willing to take one for the team…even at his family's expense, sometimes. As proven by last night's episode. _

_Reviews make my days, so please leave one if you read. See you next Thursday!_


	3. Chapter 3: Chocolate

_A/N: Sorry for the late upload! It is still technically Thursday though, so I met my deadline, however barely. _

**XxXxX **

**Chapter 3: The Chocolate **

**XxXxX **

"Suspended? What the hell do you mean, suspended?"

"Emily, keep your voice down. This is a hospital." Hotch said.

"Oh for the love of-!" she bit her lip and forced her glare to Morgan's flowers. The innocent button-mums sat unperturbed. When she finally wrestled her anger into submission, she spoke, in much softer, though equally outraged tones: "This can't possibly be legit -we caught the unsub, I'M fine...no one did anything wrong!"

"Yeah, but you know Strauss; always ready to kick us when we're down," Morgan said. He and the rest of the team, sans Reid, were spread about Emily's small room, varying degrees of anger on their faces. Only Hotch was sitting, watching Emily with his hands folded between his knees. Not only did he _look_ exhausted, but she could smell his coffee breath from here. Had he been up all night after this happened?

"Where's Reid now? Is he alright?"

"He went straight from her office to his car," said Rossi, leaning against the window sill with JJ. "Didn't even stop to clear out his desk."

Emily sighed -she was in a room full of profilers, and none of them could see that this was NOT the time for Reid to be left alone? "Okaay, but has anyone actually SEEN him? How do we even know he's home?"

When nobody answered, she groaned -and started to heave herself up.

Morgan and Rossi rushed forward at once.

"Woah! Where do you think you're going?" Rossi demanded.

"Either to find Reid, or kick Strauss's wrinkly ass. I'll let you know when I get there," she spat, trying to kick her legs free of the blankets. Both men grabbed hold of one of her forearms and (despite her struggling) pushed her back into a sitting position. Which really wasn't doing her bad mood any favors, thanks.

"Nuh uh, nothing doing Emily," Morgan said. "You have recovering to do."

"Please. I could be home right now, if I really wanted."

"The doctor says you need one more overnight stay, and then you may leave," Hotch said, calm as ever. "As your boss, I encourage you to take his advice. As your friend, I demand it."

That brought her bid for freedom to an abrupt end. A few moments passed, and she grunted in surrender at Rossi and Morgan. The two men released her...slowly, as if they thought she might make a break for it. She was glad they seemed to think she had a chance.

"...At least tell me you're going to report this." she muttered. "She's been abusing her power since...she's _always_ abused her power."

The whole room looked to Hotch.

"...It's a lot of paperwork." he said at last, dropping his glance to the floor. "But I will file a complaint; there is no question of that."

At this the team fell into glum silence. A nurse puttered in with Emily's breakfast and, seeing the harrowed looks all around, quickly puttered back out. The new day was bright and clear, morning sunlight filtering in through the shutters, striking Hotch across the face. Again she noticed how tired he seemed.

Exactly how much paperwork were they talking here?

"...We have to go." said JJ, speaking for the first time. "I'm sorry guys, but we're going to Florida two agents short. Wheels up in two hours."

"Now you tell us." Morgan sighed.

JJ ignored him, and caught Emily's eye, "You'll be alright for a few days?"

"Of course I will, not like I'll be alone," she pulled a face. "Mom is sure to visit at some point or another."

Rossi snorted, "Have fun with that."

**XxXxX**

Reid had not wanted to clear out his desk.

Nor had he wanted to speak to anyone, or let anyone see him in this new, yet all so familiar state of defeat. These were things his brain felt but could not process into a precise monologue; instead he let himself be led by his own feet out the door, the building, to the parking lot, and into his car. He was glad they, at least, still knew what to do with themselves. Traffic was heavy but not slow; he swerved into the lanes a bit more aggressively than usual, listening to the vacuum between his ears. He was at his third red light when his enormous IQ finally spewed out a coherent response to what had just happened.

_'Fuck.'_

It caught him by surprise. He turned over the word in his mind like a jeweler looking over a pearl, nearly missing the green light when it came. The Honda in front of him blared when he stomped the gas a bit too hard to catch up. When his heart rate slowed to its normal pace, he realized a second thought was lingering, almost overshadowed by the first.

He was waiting for his cell phone to ring.

He could feel it resting in his left pocket, completely still and silent. He knew it was on, seeing as he'd been terrified to turn it off since the accident. Just in case the Hospital called, he told himself, just in case something went wrong...

But why was he waiting for a call? Who would call him? Trying his best to keep at least some of his attention on the road, he cornered the expectation in his brain and shook it for answers.

_'It's because you just ran out of there like a kid having a tantrum,'_ a nasty little voice whispered in his ear. _'And now you're waiting for someone to _comfort_ you.' _

_'It's behaviour like that that got you suspended in the first place.'_ a second voice supplied.

_'You're __**weak**__.'_ A third, agonizingly familiar voice added.

"I'm not weak," he breathed to himself. Another horn wailed at him and he realized he'd been drifting far to the left, and forced his voices to stay silent, for now.

It wasn't until he was turning the key to his apartment that he remembered his unexpected guest.

_'Fuck.' _It was turning into his word of the day.

Standing arrested in the middle of the hall, he considered his options. He really didn't want to see or speak to anyone at the moment -particularly not a more-profiler-than-thou ex-Agent. There was no reason why he couldn't just turn around and go...go...

Where, exactly?

He didn't know, but _somewhere not here_, he reasoned. A coffee shop. Wherever it was normal people went when they had no place else...

Sigh. _'No place else to go.'_ Could you get more pathetic?

Thatcher the parrot squawked from his neighbor's apartment. Out of habit, he tuned him out...

...and realized how utterly silent his apartment was by comparison.

This gave him pause; his building was to 'soundproof' as spaghetti noodles were to 'sturdy.' And yet, he could hear nothing from behind the door before him. Even straining his ears, he could not catch the patter of footsteps-and Gideon wasn't light. It wouldn't be so much a patter as a steady clunking.

Was he sleeping again, or...?

Or did he leave?

_'Not without saying goodbye!'_ the part of him that liked to wear watches over his sleeves cried. To which the older, more damaged Reid replied, _'Given his track record? That's probably __**exactly**__ what he did.'_

A drop of sadness fell and rippled out throughout his body. Followed by a torrential downpour of irritation. At himself or at Gideon, he didn't know, and at this time he didn't really care to find out. Anyone who could have witnessed this thought process would only have seen a young man with his hand locked around a doorknob, frowning at the door in question as if he suspected it of treachery. They would have also noted the eerie stillness of the man, and most likely hurried on with their eyes averted.

His grasp on the doorknob tightened. _'If he's not here,' _he thought carefully. _'You're not allowed to feel sorry for yourself. Okay Spencer?' _Without waiting for himself to answer, he pushed the door open a crack and popped his head in. No one was in the main room, but then, there was always that nap theory.

"Gideon?" he called. No answer.

After calling a second time, he sidled inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. From there he tiptoed room to room, poking his head around corners and doors, even going so far as to check his closet. There was nothing to find except a pile of freshly laundered towels folded on his bed. He was alone in the apartment; Gideon had left after all.

_**XxXxX**_

His front door slammed open and then shut. Reid sat up fast enough to give himself a head rush. Blinking back the red spots, he realized he'd dozed off on his couch. And someone had just blasted into the room. Who..?

Squinting over the back of the loveseat, he saw Jason Gideon standing in his front hall, his arms loaded with huge paper bags. The old man was trying to kick off his boots, muttering things under his breath that Reid couldn't hear. Gaping at the bizarre scene seemed like the only plausible response.

Gideon caught him staring, "You're back early," he observed. "Come help me with these groceries."

He barely heard; he'd whipped around to face his blank TV screen as soon as they'd made eye-contact. Trying to be discreet, he wiped at his eyes, feeling to his dismay that they were still a bit swollen. He hoped it wasn't noticeable...

"Spencer?"

"Uh, coming!" he hauled himself to his feet -and then stopped short, realizing what he was doing. "Wait a minute, why do you have groceries?"

"So we can eat. As long as I'm going to be staying here, you're going to be eating proper meals." Gideon said. He'd finally managed to free his feet from the boots and, after passing one of the bags to Reid, began peeling himself out of his jacket. Underneath was a (rather tight-fitting) black t-shirt that he hadn't been wearing the day before. Must have bought it new today, which meant he really was planning on staying. As he hung up the jacket on his undersized coat-tree, Reid noticed something he had missed the night before: Gideon had lost weight since his disappearance. Quite a lot of it, and on top of that, the skin on his arms was the colour of copper. It was un-nerving, as if someone had severed his mentor's head and stuck it on someone else's body. A gush of new questions surged towards his lips, and he only just managed to bite them back.

Gideon made off towards the kitchen. Toddling after his guest with the oversized bag in his arms, Reid said: "Where are you gonna put all this? I don't think I have room in my fridge."

"Not a problem. I already threw all of that out."

There was beat.

_"You threw out all my food?_" Huh. He wasn't aware his voice could still reach pitches like that. Gideon snatched the bag out of his hands before he could drop it, but was otherwise unperturbed.

"Most of it was bad anyway," he said, with the air of someone forced to explain something obvious. "I replaced everything, and gave you some healthier options- you DO know there are other drinks out there besides coffee, right?"

Reid made a small, dry noise in his throat. It was about as close to actual speech as he was going to get. If Gideon worried that he had offended his host, he didn't show it, opting instead to putter around the kitchen, sorting his purchases to his liking. It was official: Gideon was not a guest, but nothing less than an intruder. An invader. He..._he threw out the coffee, _damn it!

He was just gathering himself to say no, no way, get out, when the older man beat him to the punch: "So, what happened?"

Huh? "What are you-?"

"It's the middle of the day, on a workday, and I find you at home, asleep on your couch. Your cell phone is on your coffee table, turned off, instead of turned on in your pocket, and don't tell me it's allergies," He gave him a pointed look in the eye, and Reid looked away. "It doesn't take much of a profiler to see that something went wrong today, Spencer."

Ugh, profilers. He contemplated the heinously large bags of groceries; after all, they meant Gideon was here for the long haul. Would there even be a point to lying?

"Strauss suspended me."

"Because Prentiss was shot," It wasn't a question, merely a confirmation of something he already knew.

"...Yeah."

Gideon considered that, "How long?"

"A month, and then she's going to perform a full evaluation of my abilities in the field. If I don't meet her standards, I'm out of the BAU for good."

His mentor finally seemed impressed. "A month is a long time," he said.

"Tell me about it."

"Better keep you busy then. Help me with these, would you?"

And just like that, the subject was closed. Since his life seemed to be narrowing into a tight, domestic tunnel (and because he honestly had nothing better to do) he got to his feet and resigned himself to organizing the canned fruit.

_**XxXxX**_

For the third time in the last two days, he woke up on his couch. The night before he discovered that if he let his legs dangle off the armrest, he could actually get some neck room. At first it seemed his plan was a brilliant success- until he tried to sit up and discovered that both his legs were asleep. The sudden rush of blood made his nerves explode with pins and needles, and he couldn't hold back a miserable yelp. Emanating from his bathroom, again, was the sound of running water.

On top of everything, he'd slept in. The old clock on his wall read 7:45. Over an hour later then he would usually wake up. Soon he'd be snoozing 'til noon and eating potato chips for breakfast. He imagined this future self glumly; it looked rather a lot like Kevin Lynch.

When his legs didn't feel like they were on fire, he slouched into the kitchen, wanting nothing more than his usual cup of sugar with a dash of coffee-

And came to an abrupt halt when he realized he had no clue where any of that even _was_.

He breathed deeply in through his nose, out through his mouth, and started reciting the periodic table in his head to avoid smashing down the bathroom door and showing his 'mentor' exactly how much damage a 130 pound FBI Agent could do...

He was on his third cupboard when he found it. Not the coffee, but a large block of chocolate resting on a tub of brown rice. Not the cheap, sugar-filled brand he usually purchased, but 70% cocoa chocolate, the kind with dark, seductive packaging instead of a candy wrapper.

At first he was dismayed (his sweet tooth mourned for the Mars bars and Smarties), but then, like someone kicking him in the head, he remembered his earlier self-assertion.

Taking the block in his hands (it had a bit of heft to it), he checked the brand name. He wondered if Prentiss like Lindt dark chocolate...?

**XxXxX**

The team had only been gone twenty minutes when Spencer Reid strode into her room.

Okay, so maybe strode was the wrong word...he more _leaned_ into the room, at first, taking tiny steps like he hoped she wouldn't notice him. Reid's awkwardness was far from new to her, but he was being mousy even for him. Even though he was off work, he was dressed the same as ever, jacket and tie and all. His hands were clasped on some sort of square in front of him.

"Reid!" she exclaimed, sitting up straight. After everyone else had left, she had not expected any more visitors today. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I thought I'd pop in for a visit," he replied, treating her to one of his sheepish smiles. He seemed happy enough, but...

"Reid...I heard what happened."

As expected, his smile dropped a bit, his brows knitting together. "Who told you?" he asked, after a moments pause.

"Uh, everyone. The whole team was rallying against it." Fat lot of good it would do them, though, unless Hotch got his 'paperwork' done. And even then, who knew what the higher ups would decide? "Look, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, then, quickly: "Anyway I brought you a uh...a getting well present." The smile was back in place, as if it had never faltered. Prentiss eyed him, a little impressed. The youngest agent was getting better at compartmentalizing.

Then her eyes were drawn away from his face- he was holding out his square package to her, more like an offering than a gift. An offering of...

Chocolate!

"Reid..." she said, feeling the beginnings of a major choco-craving, "You didn't have to get anything for me."

An odd look crossed his face. "Er, don't worry about it. It was no trouble at all. _Really_."

That piqued her curiosity, but it was probably better not to ask. She took the chocolate from his hands the way a student takes a sword from his master. Good god, it was practically a brick! And high quality...how much would something like this _cost?_

"This...this is better than scotch. And here I thought I was gonna die from one more night of Hospital food. You're officially my hero," she said. "You don't mind if I have some right now, do you?"

"Go ahead."

Flashing a grin, she tore into the fancy wrapping with an enthusiasm she usually reserved for unsub interrogation. The chocolate was the colour of charcoal and smooth as glass, reflecting the light poring in from her window. She cracked off a corner piece and popped it in her mouth, marveling at the smoky, smooth taste and texture.

Reid was giving her a 'what a strange creature' look. So maybe she was enjoying this a little too much, but hell, she loved chocolate, and anything would be bliss after two days of thin jello...

"Y' want a peice?" she asked around a full mouth.

He opened his mouth, closed it, eyed the chocolate suspiciously, then finally: "Sure."

Over-thinking everything, as usual.

He sat on the side of her bed and (with a considerable amount of effort, she noticed) tore a smaller piece off the brick. He gave it a thorough visual examination, sniffed it, and then finally took a bite. She saw him wince; 70% cocoa wasn't for everyone, she guessed.

She waited until he swallowed. "So, what's the verdict, Dr. Reid?"

"Smarties are better."

"Ah," she said. "Well, as long as that's clear."

He dropped his gaze shyly to his hands. She couldn't believe how...calm he seemed. Emily knew she wasn't the closest person to Reid out there (she wasn't even sure there was such a person after Gideon left. Maybe Morgan, though neither man seemed to know it), but she had a pretty good idea of what his life was like outside the BAU. Minimalistic, was the best way to put it. He came, he worked out the intricacies of criminal minds, and he stayed late to do the paperwork. When Strauss took that away from him, she was taking away his home.

And yet, he seemed perfectly fine. Out of habit, she found herself watching for small ticks -an undone cuff, irritated skin from scratching, any of the signs that he was-

_(don't go there, Emily, we don't speak of that)_

-but there were none.

Not for the first time, Dr. Spencer Reid had surprised her.

So lost was she in her awe that it took her a few seconds to realize her co-worker was asking her a question.

"...Sorry, what?"

"Did the others come to visit already?"

"Oh. Yes. You actually just missed them."

"Where were they headed?"

Did they really have to talk about work when they were both excluded from it? "Florida, from what JJ says. Lucky bastards."

He seemed to be considering that. In the midst of the silence, her nurse bustled into the room, stopping when she saw the young man perched on the bed. She gave Prentiss a pointed look, glancing back at Reid, and then at her again. Right. She was supposed to be resting, or whatever.

"When are you going home?" he asked suddenly, distracting her from the nurse.

"Uh? Tomorrow. Why?"

"The rest of the team won't be here to take you home?"

She blinked. "No, Reid. I don't need seven people to deliver me to my own house. We wouldn't all fit in a car anyway."

The nurse was getting a pinched look about her face. The look said say goodbye to your friend, before I do it for you.

Reid seemed to having some sort of inner struggle, letting his lips hang open and his eyes flicker from his hands to her face. "Well, um, since you put it that way I guess you don't need...I mean, I don't have much to -not that I mean..."

In his flustered state he glanced over his shoulder, jumping when he caught sight of the nurse. Reading the meaning on the woman's expression with trademark profiler efficiency, he snapped to his feet. "Never mind. I guess I better let you sleep...see you around."

She stared up at him. What was _that_ all abou-?

Oh.

Duh.

Leaning forward, she managed to catch his hand just as he was beginning to turn towards the hall. He looked back at her, startled, but not pulling away.

"It would be great if you would come tomorrow," she whispered. "God knows I could use the company."

This was true; she was no more looking forward to her 'time off' then he was. And she may not always understand Reid, but she understood people. Furthermore, she understood profilers. She wouldn't leave him alone.

"A-_hem_," said the nurse. Neither of them paid her any mind.

"...Okay," he said. His voice slipped an octave higher than usual. "I'll be here. See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she agreed, and released him. She saw his lip twitch upwards a fraction-and then he whirled around and strode (this time, he actually was striding) out the door. Before he escaped her line of vision, she thought she caught him looking at his hand with something like curiosity in his eyes.

**_XxXxX_**

_A/N: Just a note on characterization again; if you've ever seen the episode where Gideon takes over Garcia's office and messes up all her things, you'll know that personal space is a bit of foreign concept to him. _

_I'm thinking of updating this story bi-weekly rather than just weekly. Thoughts?_

_Reviews make my day! If you read this far, I'd love to hear from you. _


	4. Chapter 4: Washington Redskins

_A/N: So from now on I'm going to update Mondays and Thursdays! Faster updates FTW._

**XxXxX**

**Chapter 4: Washington Redskins**

**XxXxX**

When Strauss suspended him, Reid worried it might spark a regression. He could admit he wasn't the best at handling stress (though, in his opinion, he was improving), and sometimes one unsub or one victim would be enough to push him to the edge. Close to that aloof, bad-tempered man he'd been in the middle of his addiction, the one who'd pushed away those few people who truly knew and cared for him. The fact that he'd managed to stay clean this long, mostly on his own, was a statistical anomaly. Almost all addicts tried and failed without help. He only managed because he never truly felt alone; in their quiet, but necessary, way, the team stood by him. Their temporary removal from his life would cause a psychological disturbance he wasn't sure he could handle. The inevitable depression, an enemy he didn't know he could best.

Surprisingly, his biggest enemy these days was boredom.

Sitting in front of the TV in his pyjamas, Reid felt like a listless teen during summer vacation. Gideon insistance on cooking all his meals didn't help; that was like having a real mom, which was just too weird and complex to think about. He pushed the fettuccini alfredo around his plate; Gideon always gave him a huge serving in the hopes of fattening him up. Reid, who had resembled a stick figure all his life, severely doubted his body chemistry could be changed by exploding his stomach.

He wished he could see Emily today.

They'd gotten together twice since he'd brought her the chocolate. As promised, he'd returned to the Hospital the next morning, and waited outside her door while she changed from her flimsy gown to actual clothes. When she joined him in the hall, he was taken aback -he'd become so accustomed to the suits and jackets she wore on the job, he'd forgotten she even _had_ other clothes. The t-shirt was red, form-fitting, and (he tried and failed to repress the thought) rather low-cut. Like the shirts she wore when she was still a new profiler.

Except, now there was a scar where before was only skin.

"I'm ready to go," she'd said. Then, noticing his face: "What's the matter with _you_?"

He'd cleared his throat, "Nothing."

She'd studied his expression, but said nothing, allowing him to lead her to the parking lot. Under her direction, he drove to her brownstone, and walked her to the door. The conversation in the car had been seldom and stilted _("Nice day today" "Yeah"),_ so he expected this to be their farewell. Possibly for the next month.

Then: "Would you like to come in for a coffee?"

He'd blinked, "Uhh...sure?"

"Gee, don't get all excited. It's only my house."

He remembered stammering apologetically until she assured him she was teasing.

Reid had never been to Prentiss's house before. Though he had, on one of his many sleepless nights, put some research into the history of the building (and, on a whim, into Prentiss herself). Considering it had once been owned by a gigolo, he thought it was a pretty classy place. It had high, angular ceilings and cream-colored walls that seemed to produce their own sunlight. The furniture exuded the same culture and confidence his co-worker did; although, he'd reflected, there did seem to be an awful lot of booze lying around. If it had been anyone else, he would have worried, but with Prentiss it just seemed natural. The lady liked her scotch.

Four minutes later, his knees quaked with relief when that hot, sugary liquid hit his lips. Gideon, who's only interest in life now seemed to be Reid's diet, had NOT replaced the thrown-out coffee, adding caffeine withdrawal to his list of problems...

He'd paused. Gideon.

Should he tell her..?

He swallowed and looked down into the mud-coloured depths of his cup. No, he decided, he would keep that secret a bit longer.

Emerging from his thoughts and back into reality, he realized he and Prentiss weren't saying very much. With a touch of panic he saw she wasn't even looking at him, but was instead regarding the willow tree outside her kitchen window. It seemed he was already boring her. He didn't want to be boring. He'd spent most of his life with people telling him he was boring.

A hundred useless facts about willow trees flooded his brain-

_("When you're talking, what makes you feel like an expert?"_

_"Uh, statistics." _

_"NO. Trust me, no.") _

-but none that would be of any interest to Emily Prentiss. He compensated by taking another huge gulp of coffee.

And burned his tongue in the process.

The yelp that followed was too loud, accenting the uncomfortable silence. Emily was looking at him as if he'd just taken a bite out of the cup.

"...You okay?"

"Fine," he squeaked -then cleared his throat. "I'm fine. Just thinking."

"About?"

About how I should never be allowed to hold a conversation with anyone ever, was what he felt like saying. Right before he would sink into the floor, never to be seen again.

"The others," he said. Yeah, that was good. That was something they had in common. "Uhm...how long do you think they'll be gone?"

"Three to six days, depending on the unsub."

"Yeah, I bet," he scrounged around his brain for another ice-breaker. "Did they say what kind of unsub it was?"

"The murdering kind, I'd wager." That was a joke. She was joking with him; that was good. But her gaze was sliding away from him and back to the willow tree. Her eyes were dull. That was bad.

He was just about finished crafting his next sentence when she looked back to him suddenly, murdering the words on his lips with stern brown eyes.

"I just want to make something clear." she said, effectively making his courage shrivel up. "We're not just co-workers, you and I. We're also _friends_."

His mouth dropped open, completely without consent from his brain.

"So you don't have to talk about the BAU," she finished. "Lighten up a little, alright?" At this she gave him a gentle punch in the arm. He looked down at the place where she'd touched, a little confused.

The thick silence rolled back into the room. She was watching him, the way Gideon used to watch him, waiting for him to make the first move

Oh the Hell with it.

"I see you have a weeping willow."

Emily's eyes had not moved from his face. "Yes," she said. "I do. What about it?"

"Did you know the weeping willow is a hybrid of the peking and white willows?"

"What's a peking willow?"

"It's a Chinese species of willow tree. It's not surprising you don't know it; they're rarely cultivated in North America and Europe."

"Oh." She took another sip of her whiskey, and he thought that would be that, until she swallowed and asked. "Why not?"

For a moment, he was too stunned to respond. The next he dove into a long spiel about the different species, appearances, and cultural significances of willow trees. With a mounting sense of wonder, he saw Emily was not growing bored, or letting her eyes glaze over, but listening with rapt attention. For the most part she was silent, occasionally asking for clarification or more detail. The subject evolved smoothly from trees, to flowers, to Star Trek, somehow (she proclaimed to be something of a 'closet Trekker').

Never once had he been asked to shut up.

Back in present time, where Reid was not feeling nearly so socially competent, he tried to recall a time when Emily Prentiss had _ever_ told him to shut up. JJ had; Hotch did from time to time; it was practically part of Morgan's daily routine (flex muscles, make women swoon, tell Reid to shut up, have breakfast…). But Emily...(he thought incredulously) seemed _interested. _

When had this started and why hadn't he noticed before?

The second time they'd gotten together, two days later, had not been planned. Not by him, at least; he'd just been compromising a bowl of broccoli cheddar soup when he heard a rapt knocking at his door. Gideon was in the shower, so he answered the door.

"Hey," Emily said, grinning.

"Emily-!" he rushed into the hall, slamming the door behind him. She might hear the shower running and think -something he would not want her to think. "W-what are you doing here?"

"You weren't answering your cell, and I don't know your home phone number," If she thought his behaviour was odd, she didn't comment on it. "I was just wondering if you wanted to go for lunch?"

Lunch? She came all this way to ask him if he wanted lunch?

"What for?" he asked.

"Well Mister Triple PhD, I was hoping we could eat. Do you like Hibachi?"

"Huh...never tried it..."

"Really? You need the chopstick practice anyway. Are your neighbours always this loud?"

He cringed. Thatcher the parrot was squawking his cover of 'Taps,' and an old man from the first floor was cussing out his busted lawn mower. Emily was so out of place it was almost painful to his retinas. It was just...just wrong.

"Sure I'll come, just let me do something quick." He zipped back into his apartment, grabbing his own coat and scooping up what had been his lunch. He was about to throw it out -but then cling-wrapped it and stuffed it in the overfull fridge instead. Since Gideon had gone to the trouble of making it for him and all...

Rejoining Emily in the hall, he said. "I'm ready."

"Awesome," She clapped him on the shoulder. "Trust me Reid, you'll love Hibachi."

He counted the seconds her hand lingered on him as they walked. One, two, three, four...and then it dropped back to her side. He felt an unusual tingle of regret.

Hibachi had been good. A little startling, at first (having food thrown at him was the greatest culture shock he'd ever known) and a little frustrating later, what with the chopsticks and all...but he'd enjoyed himself. The exact details about what they'd talked about escaped him, but the images, as always, were clear as photographs: Emily was laughing, she was smiling at him, she was touching his shoulder when she spoke. The fishy smell and brand new stains on his sweater notwithstanding, it had been a very enjoyable afternoon.

It almost made him glad he'd gotten suspended-

Gideon slouched into the room, scowling when he saw Reid poking his fettuccini. "For the love of God, it's just noodles!" And then he stomped off into the bedroom, muttering something about picky eaters

-_Almost_, being the key phrase.

**XxXxX**

"What happened to JJ?" Gideon asked suddenly.

Reid blinked, and looked up from the book he'd been scanning, a small frown hovering on his lips. The older man was collapsed on the other end of the couch and had, up until three seconds ago, been watching the Discovery Channel without comment. Now he was watching Reid...and was that frustration he saw in his face? No...must be the lighting.

"She's still around." he said. Then he realized how utterly inadequate an answer that was and added: "She's also had a baby and gotten engaged. In that order, actually."

"I thought you two were getting along?"

He didn't see what he was getting at. "We were! I mean, we do...I'm the baby's Godfather. His name's Henry." ...Not that Gideon had asked about the baby...

The older man seemed to be searching for something -what that could be, he didn't know- and then he turned back to the screen. A yellow canary was twittering brainlessly at the camera, apparently capturing all of Gideon's attention.

Reid's curiosity and his unwillingness to speak to Gideon got in a minor scuffle. Curiosity sucker-punched Unwillingness in the chin, and got the better of him: "Why do you wanna know about JJ?" Was he maybe planning to invade her house next? He better not...Will put up with a lot of shit from his FBI fiancée, but a rogue agent might be pushing it.

Said rogue-agent shrugged, keeping his eyes on the canary. "You were sweet on her. Just wondered if you ever got the nerve to say so."

His cheeks exploded with heat. Looking quickly away, he tried to get back to his reading. It was no good...the symbols were registering but the words were not. With a sigh, he closed the book. He'd been enjoying it, too.

...Wow, it had been a long time since he'd thought of his crush on JJ. The one date to nowhere. The one dream that had him cursing his eidetic memory for a whole month. The one person who'd ever called him 'Spence...'

The courage to admit his feelings never came. Plus that whole Lila thing happened, which made him foolishly believe he had options. But he couldn't begin to regret it; JJ was in love, really in love, and Henry was the perfect product of a perfect couple. He even liked Will. He was no longer 'Spence', but 'Uncle Spence', and he wouldn't have it any other way.

There was also-

_(It's all in the past now. Forget about it)_

-the real thing that stopped him from confessing was...

_(FORGET it)_

But Reid couldn't forget.

It was true that JJ was the first woman to take any sort of interest in him. But that's all he was. An interest; a curiosity. When that wore off, he became a little brother. Many times, when she interrupted his statistical speech, or when she was laughing not-at-him-but-not-quite-with-him, he saw something dull and hard lurking behind her eyes. It was a good while before he realized it was patience.

He told himself not to take it seriously. JJ was nice -but distant. She kept the entire team but Garcia at arms length, and it had nothing to do with him. He even believed it until she stopped calling him Spence and started rolling her eyes.

_(But she made you Henry's Godfather! That's gotta count for something!)_

Of course it did. And that was years ago -now, their cold-but-caring media liaison was a sister to him, too. It wasn't like his heart had been broken. Just a little bruised.

Satisfied that the old wounds were keeping shut, he turned his thoughts to Gideon. The questioning had been strange. Aside from mealtimes, his mentor barely spoke to him at all, much less about women. He hadn't even asked to play chess (not even once!). Had the old man really spent the last two years wondering if his youngest team members ever hooked up?

Gideon grunted, and shut off the tedious bird program. "I'm going to bed." he announced. "See you in the morning, Spencer."

He shut off the lights on his way out, leaving Reid and his confusion alone in the dark.

**XxXxX**

The crowd roared; the Washington Redskins scored a point. Or...whatever the terminology was. Spencer Reid could recite all the poetic works of Edgar Allen Poe by heart, backwards by order of publication, yet football remained a mystery.

High in the rafters looming over the field, the sky felt close enough to touch. Blue as turquoise stone and just as smooth. Still all the hundreds of pairs of eyes around him were fixed on the players below, oblivious to the beauty just above their heads. Their voices rose and fell like the tide. Among them, high and clear and laughing, was the voice of a certain pretty blonde girl in his ear.

"Nice day, isn't it?" he yelled. She didn't seem to hear him.

Something happened on the field. The hordes leapt to their feet, a single note of jubilation swelling, filling the stadium, his ears, his mind. The blonde was standing too, her arms raised in a V for Victory. It was nice to see her so unwound, even if it was because of a bunch of ant-sized alpha males and not him.

He wondered who the blonde was today; he had not yet seen her face, hidden by a curtain of gold hair as it was. Most days it was JJ, cheering and nudging and letting him know who her favourite players were. Sometimes she would try to explain the rules, but her eyes never left the game, which was fine with him. When it was JJ he could relax; nothing was expected of this. He could sit back and listen to the normal human beings enjoying a summer afternoon, occasionally admiring the beauty of his co-worker against the sky. Sometimes her belly would be round with his god-son, and she would be just that much more gorgeous.

On the days when she was Lila, things were more complicated. She understood even less about the game, and would fix him with an expectant stare, like a puppy at the dinner table. Her questions came without pause, and apparently without any actual desire for answers. _When is this gonna be over? When are you going to take me somewhere nice, Spencer? You men and your sports. I thought you were different. _He tried to explain he thought _she_ liked the Redskins (though he could never remember exactly why that was) but the words wouldn't come. Her hands were always insinuating themselves onto his body, demanding and distracting. When she kissed him, she tasted like bubble-gum and cigarettes.

Any second now today's girl would turn to him. She might be smiling, she might not, but her eyes would be on him for the very first time, and he would know who she was. Then he would know what to expect.

A shadow was cast over him. He frowned and looked up to his left, where the girl was. Her form was tall and dark, absorbing the light of the sun instead of reflecting it. His brows knitted together -confused, because the woman here was not blonde, which was unprecedented. Brown-almost-black locks fell in waves to squared shoulders, to a body filled with unusual power. Squinting against the glare of her silhouette, he saw she was paying no heed to the game, her face turned up to the air. When wind caressed the rafters, she didn't sway, not even a strand of hair blew out of place. Like it couldn't touch her.

"...Emily?" he breathed.

Emily looked down at him, grinning, "Isn't this the stupidest thing you've ever seen?" There was no harshness to her words; it was the soft amusement of someone caught in an unlikely situation. The sunlight around her was fading; the darkness of her hair, suit, and eyes was devouring it, drawing down an unnatural night.

"I never liked football," he said, and it felt okay to say it.

"Me either," she said. "Bunch of gorilla men in tight pants. Real frickin' sexy. I think your mom wants something."

He whipped around to see Diana Reid sitting on his other side, scribbling away in one of her notebooks. A hand was pressed to her lips; something was bothering her.

"Mom!" he squeaked. "You shouldn't be here!"

Diana was muttering something, "...Sleeping in again...never knew I raised such a lazy baby..."

He woke with a start.

The shower was on at full blast, as usual. He didn't want to see his hydro bill at the end of this month. Though if nothing else, at least Gideon had good hygiene.

Forcing himself to sit up through cramped muscles, Reid drew his knees up to his chest, letting his forehead rest against them.

...Geez. He'd been having variations of that dream for the past two years, but never anything so vivid. Plus (he thought with a tinge of embarrassment) his mother had never before made a guest appearance.

Neither had Emily Prentiss, his brain added

Emily...

He looked at the clock. Nine a.m. (the vision of his Kevin-Lynch-self crept ever closer). He ought to get up. But...it wasn't like he was doing anything today. As far as he knew, the team was still in Florida, and Emily had a whole day planned with her mother (not that she'd seemed very happy about said plans).

Assessing the situation with all 187 points of his IQ, he concluded that getting up would be entirely senseless, and flopped onto his back.

_...Besides,_ he thought as he drifted off, _maybe I'll get to have the end of that dream..._

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: Note on characterizations: I've never understood when fan-authors portray JJ as some bubbly blonde. She is the farthest thing from bubbly. She is tough, though in a different way from Elle and Prentiss, and cold (see the episode where she nearly leaves Will because she "didn't want to get close"). But I loved her for it. It made the times when she did show warmth just that much more meaningful. BRING HER BACK, CBS! _

_Oh, and Prentiss really does seem to enjoy Reid's rants. See the chocolate and peas conversation. *grin*_

_Reviews leave me smiling for hours (even the critical ones!). If you read and have something to say, I'd love to hear from you._


	5. Chapter 5: Touch

**XxXxX**

**Chapter 5: Touch**

**XxXxX**

Emily winced at her reflection. She stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, shirt unbuttoned and hanging down by her elbows. Curving up out of her bra and around her left breast was the ugliest scar she'd ever seen. A souvenir from the edge of death.

_'Piss-sticks,'_ she thought, '_I look like Frankensteini.' _She felt the rough edges of the wound. To think someone -some doctor- actually cut her open and stuck his hands in there. It was a bizarre thought, something you might grasp if only it had happened to someone else. Her heart fluttered under her hand.

A nasty thought occurred to her. She dropped the shirt to her carpet and leapt to her wardrobe, digging within and withdrawing her favourite red top. The one where the neckline plunged to the sternum. The one she wore every second date of her life (never on First Dates; she didn't want the guy to get the wrong idea). She was already yanking it on as she rushed back to the mirror. Her head emerged and she gaped at herself.

It was as she feared- the red framed and accented the scar as if by design. Forget Frankenstein, this was...this was some Phantom of the Opera shit right here. She tried pulling the edges of the fabric together over her cleavage, but it wouldn't stay unless she safety-pinned it or something. As attractive as she knew she was, a safety pin might be pushing it- it took a hell of a lot to pull off hobo-chic.

Giving in to reality, she pulled off the top and put it away, carefully folded for its retirement. It wasn't so bad, really...between what she did for a living and the void that had once been her sex life, the top was barely worn anyway. She didn't need to dress slutty.

_'Then again'_ she thought, picking up her Office Appropriate blouse with a sigh, _'every woman appreciates the option.'_

Her mother would have been glad to see the death of the top. Back in the old days, everything Emily wore was a reflection of the ambassador; every word a novel, every scuffed shoe a scandal. They'd had lunch together recently (not Hibachi, but an Italian restaurant where the waiters actually spoke Italian). It was nice enough. She had smiled, and made her mother smile in turn, however tightly. Emily knew she was loved. That was not the issue.

The issue was that the entire time, as they spoke over their meals, she could sense restrained disapproval. Ambassador Prentiss's eyes, though warm, were flecked with sparks of judgment. Even embarrassment. As far as she was concerned, Emily's new brownstone, new job, even her new clothes were a disguise. In her mother's eyes, Emily Prentiss would never amount to much more than a low-cut red top.

Her shirt buttoned a little higher than usual, she at last turned her back on the mirror. Spread open on her bed was her phonebook, turned to the page titled 'BAU.' Reid's home number was near the bottom of the list. Maybe she would call him, see if he was busy...it had only been a few days since they'd last hung out (they did that a lot now, given the circumstances), but she was already beginning to feel trapped in her own skin; she could only imagine what it was like for Reid, who felt trapped with himself at the best of times.

But she really shouldn't leave the house. Hotch was going to call, and they'd discuss the length of her leave (she was rooting for as short as possible). Then again, it was barely noon...surely a few hours away from the phone wouldn't hurt...

The doorbell rang, silencing the internal debate. She hadn't been expecting anyone...

She was down the stairs when the bell rang again (this visitor was impatient). "Keep your socks on, I'm coming!" she called, well aware they could not hear. She reached the door, opened it -

"Hi Emily," Reid said before the screen was even touched. He appeared to be speaking to his feet.

"Reid?" she blinked a few times, recovered, and rushed him inside, giving his ancient car a wry look before closing the door behind them.

He hadn't looked at her; seemingly fascinated by the high ceiling, scratching at his neck with one hand, the other tucked under his forearm. Long-limbed awkwardness. Like a teenager.

"What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"Um..." he looked in the direction of her kitchen. "Can I have some coffee, please?"

She wasn't a profiler for nothing; Reid was an anti-social creature, not out of disdain but out of shyness and the fear of being unaccepted. As such, he usually spoke slowly, each word tested and chosen; every action designed to be as inoffensive as possible. So he did not just show up at someone's house uninvited unless he had a damn good reason.

"Alright, but then you aren't allowed to avoid the question. Got it?"

He nodded, and they traversed to the kitchen, he sitting down at the table and waiting like a child. What was she, his mom? Well, no...from what little she knew of her, Diana Reid was probably not the type to sit her son down and make a pancake.

The smell of coffee suffused the air between them, turning the awkward silence into a pleasant, dreamy one. What time was it? The microwave said 12:15, pretty much breakfast time these days. It had been a long time since she'd eaten breakfast with anyone...

Oh, what the Hell. "You want eggs? I can make sunny or scrambled," she called.

"Um, sure. The first one, if it's not too much trouble?" he said. A sudden wave of goodmoodyness overtook her.

"You want 'em looking at you? Can do," she said, and set about to find her pan and spatula.

"Can I help?"

"Can you cook?"

"Uh, I know how to microwave a few things."

"That's a no then."

Soon they were both at the table, a steaming mug and plate each. Emily didn't touch her fork.

"So as much as I enjoy your company, you have to admit this isn't exactly normal," she said. "You gonna tell me what's up?"

He wasn't eating either, she noticed, though he looked hungry. "You didn't have to make me food...contrary to popular belief, I do feed myself. Sometimes."

"Reid, answer the damn question."

He winced -" I-I just wasn't...feeling well...today."

Not feeling well? She watched her fellow agent as he avoided eye contact, scratched at his neck. The way he kept toying with the buttons on his cuff-

Oh.

"...Do you...'not feel well' very often?" her voice was softer than intended.

"Every now and then," he mumbled, then looked her in the face for the first time that day. His eyes pleaded her not to tell anyone.

"I get it," her mouth said before her brain could run interference. "I really do, Reid. I was, ah, pretty unwell myself when I was a kid."

"I'm not a kid."

"No. But I had a choice."

They stared at each other, leaving all the important things unsaid; but they were both profilers. They didn't need words. After six ticks of the clock Reid broke the gaze, turning to his eggs with surprising enthusiasm. Emily followed suit, and breakfast passed without conversation.

Somehow they ended up on the couch, their mugs in hand and expressions grim. Reid seemed to be thinking, about what she could only guess. She sipped her coffee in patient silence.

"I don't get it," he said suddenly.

She waited for further statement, but none came. He merely took another huge sugary gulp. Must have been talking to himself.

"What's going on in that big brain of yours?" she asked. To her surprise, he blushed. "What?"

"Um," he glanced at her and then into his mug. "Earlier, when we were talking. You grabbed my hand."

Huh?

"I did?" she asked, looking at her right palm with suspicion.

"Yes. With your left, to be exact."

She switched palms. "Huh. You know, I had no idea I did that. Must be an instinctual thing-"

"I don't like it when people touch me."

Ouch. Okay, so no more instinctual stuff. The odd thing was, her feelings were actually a bit hurt.

Something feather-light brushed her hand. She looked at Reid; in direct contrast to his words, he was reaching across the two-foot distance between them on the couch, trailing his fingertips from her wrist to her knuckles.

She watched his face, stunned. His fingers lingered over hers just long enough for her to wonder what he was looking for. Then their eyes met- and his hand withdrew.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"...I thought you weren't into the touchy-feely stuff?" she asked, only half-joking.

He seemed to think hard about that- it was the look he wore while trying to chase down an unsub in that brilliant mind of his. He was silent long enough for Emily to think the question had been dismissed, when: "Human skin-to-skin contact is said to produce calming chemicals in the brain. In fact, the psychological impact of contact can be so great that most doctors fiercely encourage parents to massage and hold their newborns frequently; infants who receive such treatments cry 82% less than infants who don't, and tend to be less aggressive in later life. Adults who are using and trying to quit are often told to book regular massage therapy sessions. It...soothes the cravings." his voice caught and he trailed off, seeming to think he'd said too much. Considering they were co-workers, technically he had...

...But they weren't in the office right now.

Moving slowly, so as not to startle the vulnerable agent, she closed the space between them on the couch. Her knee knocked his, but she barely noticed; there was too much fabric in the way for her to care. He stared at her face, eyes round as she raised her hand and touched her fingertips to the side of this neck. Amazingly, his eyes went even wider; his lips parted, but for once, no words came.

"...So what you're basically saying is, this helps?" she asked. Maybe no one else would listen to his factual ramblings and hear a plea for help, but she was always good at listening...

After a moment, he nodded. She felt the muscles in his neck flex under the pads of her fingers.

Checking his eyes for resistance or discomfort -she found none- she began to move. Applying no pressure, she slid her hand down the side of his throat, letting the fingers spread naturally. His eyelids flickered, his lips wibbled- then pressed together, stifling what could have been a sigh or a gasp. But he wasn't pulling away- she trusted him enough to pull away if he was uncomfortable. Her thumb dipped into the hollow under his Adam's apple, tracing the tendons there, then arced down to linger at his collar. Unlike the stubblyness just below his jaw, the skin here was river-rock smooth. 'Cause he was young, she thought jealously, wishing she could be so lucky.

She felt him swallow, and looked up. He wasn't looking at her anymore; embarrassment was catching up with him at a gallop. In one slow fluid motion, she brushed around and across his collar to cup her hand onto his shoulder, squeezing slightly. This would be okay...there was a sweater vest here to guard against whatever insecurities Reid had to face.

To her surprise, he leaned and pressed his cheek to her hand. There he remained for one second...two...and then he straightened up, giving an apologetic look before shrugging her off. She let the hand drop to her lap.

The whole exchange had taken three minutes. The coffee was definitely cold by now. Probably undrinkable.

"You feel better?" she asked, unable to remove the wry edge from her voice, no matter how much she wanted to.

"I do." He sounded surprised- or maybe that was just the neon-blush talking. A smile tugged at her lips.

"So, how does that fit in with your no-touchy policy?"

The young agent chuckled; it was a faraway sound, laughter ripped from the air and stranded here where it didn't belong. "You know, I haven't figured that part out yet."

Her mug was cool and heavy now. She set it down on the side table in resignation. Meanwhile Reid was already sipping away at his own, apparently unmindful that it probably tasted like sugar-flavoured Highway-slush at this point. She couldn't help but notice his hand was shaking.

Looking back on the whole thing, she realized if she, or he, had been anyone else, the situation would have been creepy. People don't normally go around...touching. It sounded way icky on paper. If any of her occasional dates had behaved the way she'd just been, they would be swiftly introduced to the business end of her automatic. But she was Emily Prentiss, and he was Spencer Reid. She knew him well enough to know that when he was touching her hand, he really was_ just_ touching her hand.

She was just wondering if she should say anything as such (or would all the sentimentalness cause a volcanic eruption in Reid's head?) when the shrill beeping of a cell phone cut the moment's throat.

They both started, checked their pockets -and Reid emerged with the culprit phone. He made an odd face at the screen -the caller ID?- and, to her surprise, disconnected to the call without picking up.

"I think I have to go," he said, before she could comment. The words were glazed with regret, though because he enjoyed her company or because he dreaded the caller, she didn't know.

"Okay," she said, standing. "I'll walk you to the door."

Their goodbye was friendly, though his exit was just as ambiguous as his entrance. Emily watched his little old car chug up the street and out of sight, sad to see him go. Pretty damn sad, actually. And worried...she hoped his...unwellness...would trouble him no more today.

She looked up to the gathering clouds- there was a storm coming- and remembered the river-rock smoothness of his skin; his flickering eyes; the warmth of his cheek against her fingers...

Whatever that was, it was obviously a major step forward for her co-worker. For her friend. Whatever secrets he was keeping now (and she had no doubt the phone call was a part of that) she was happy to know she'd been there for that.

_(...lips a firm line; a barely withheld gasp...)_

She was glad she could help.

XxXxX

Reid burst into his apartment with as much force as he could muster; the effect was rather like a butterfly trying to body-check a window. He'd hoped to catch Gideon off his guard, to show the older man without words the extent of his frustration and confusion. Mostly he stumbled on the welcome mat. To make matters worse, Gideon -who was recently taken with the couch as a reading area- didn't seem to notice. Reid collected himself and watched as the older man reclined, paused, and turned a page in his book.

He wanted to yell, to curse, to question just _why_ this man thought he had the right to call him home like a child from the playground.

"...You called?" God, he was so lame.

Gideon looked over his shoulder, peering over the rims of his glasses with surprise -yeah, right- and smirked. "'Bout time you got home," he said, snapping his book shut. "I'm guessing you were visiting a lady?"

"Um, no, just Prentiss."

For some reason Gideon seemed to find that funny, but as usual he kept his thoughts to himself. He heaved himself to a standing position and said, offhand: "I forgot to mention, I have a job interview tonight. Not sure how long I'll be out, so don't wait up. I made a rice dish for you, it's on the stove. I guess I could have stored it, but fresh is always better-"

"You're getting a job?" he blurted, interrupting. Gideon looked annoyed.

"Well, yeah. Did you think I was going to mooch off you 'til Ragnorok?"

_Actually, I kinda did,_ he thought in a daze. Not that he'd given it much thought; he'd dimly noted that the older man was unemployed, but it was so difficult to imagine him in any other line of work but Profiling that the idea of Job-Hunting seemed unlikely at best. Furthermore, Gideon had never made any mention of such a thing 'til now.

Besides, Reid had never really known anyone who lived the nine-to-five life. In truth, having Gideon around all the time, bossing him around with a weird and not entirely welcome brand of affection, well, it was a bit like living with Mom again. A balding, hairy male Mom.

"I haven't seen you go out," he realized, struggling to wipe his mind of all the thoughts he didn't want to think. "How exactly did you set up this interview?"

"Over the phone. You can do that if you promise the right paperwork." Gideon was moving to the kitchen, no doubt to try and shut Reid up with food. He followed at a safe distance.

"And you have the right paperwork?"

"You think I'd lie about that kind of thing?" he snapped. He stopped before the stove and pointed at the simmering pot accusingly. "You better eat this, Spencer. Brown rice is one of the super-foods."

Reid, who could have recited the nutritional benefits of brown rice 'til Gideon's head spun, ignored this. "What exactly is the 'right paperwork'? One of these days you're going to have to stop hiding things from me!"

Gideon didn't look at him, didn't even have the grace to seem apologetic. All he said was: "Why?"

And then he stalked out of the room.

**XxXxX**

Things were quiet between them after that. Though he'd been feeling better after his visit with Prentiss (an unusual visit, but...soothing) the ache had returned. Not with full force but rather as an itch he was unable to scratch. The problem with dilaudid, he often thought, was that it was at its most inviting in times of stress. Spencer Reid, all things considered, had a rather stressful life. He ignored the rice and gorged himself on Krispy Squares instead, trying not to listen to the seductive voice of addiction; like a loon call in the night, it promised beauteous calm. Calm he would never allow himself again.

Gideon had left to find something to wear for the interview. Reid noted an envelope sticking out of the older man's coat pocket, presumably the 'right paperwork.' Really, he didn't care if Gideon got a job. He didn't care if he joined the Cirque de Soleil. But if his mentor was going to smash his way back into his life, without so much as a forewarning, he was NOT allowed to do the same on the way back out. Reid had handled a lot of emotional turmoil in his lifetime, but he didn't think he could take being used for his stove. Which, from what he could see, was all that was going on here.

_Not true!_ declared a younger Reid in his mind. _He takes care of you. Sort of. And that's kinda weird, but so what? What ISN'T weird in your life?_

_Maybe I've had enough of weird. _he thought back.

No.

He'd just had enough.

Answers. He wanted, and needed, answers. But Gideon clearly was not going to give them to him-

(_Why? You have to stop hiding things from me. Why?)_

-in fact, didn't even think he was worthy of them. Well, so what. He was Spencer Reid damnit, he who had cheated death countless times through the sheer power of his mind. No one could hide information from him; not if he really wanted it. Not even Jason Gideon.

A list of names illuminated his minds eye, as clear and vivid as if it had been tacked up on the wall. They scrolled up like the credits of a movie in fast-speed, certain people highlighted and some discarded altogether. In the span of three seconds, he narrowed down everyone he had ever met to about 200, then 50, then 15 individuals. From there he went from names to faces; smiling at him on his first day of work; whispering to other agents and casting him nervous looks; frowning old mouths asking if he was really only 22. The process was fluid and he did it without blinking; at least, until he came to one name he had no face for.

The perfect name. The only one who could possibly know...

He straightened up, and the world inside his head dispersed, replaced by his mundane apartment. A phone book. He needed a phone book.

Fifteen minutes of searching later (ugh. Where was Garcia when you needed her?), he found his withered yellow book. It was a bit outdated (Lord knew where the more current ones were. Possibly his guest had eaten them) but it would do. Reid himself was 28, and the person he had in mind was as well. Surely a man approaching his thirties would stay in one place for a few years? He dumped the book on his kitchen table (it made a clunk loud enough to startle Thatcher the parrot a few doors down) and flipped the pages open to G. The man better be listed, or he WOULD call Garcia, and that would stir up all kinds of questions he just wasn't ready to answer...

Luckily, the name was there, as was the number. He snatched the phone without taking his eyes off the page, like the name would escape without supervision, and dialed quickly.

One ring...two...three...and then a click and a young and all too familiar voice speaking in his ear: "Hello?"

"Hello," his voice caught, but he pressed on. "Um, are you Stephen?"

"I am," said the man. "Who is this?"

"My name is Dr. Spencer Reid," he swallowed. "...I used to work with your father."

**XxXxX**

_A/N_: _So that stuff about skin-to-skin contact soothing drug cravings is trufax._

_Reviews make me smile! _

_See you Monday._


	6. Chapter 6: Alone

**XxXxX**

**Chapter 6**: **Alone**

**XxXxX **

Emily was having the strangest dream. She lounged on her couch, regarding JJ's latest PowerPoint masterpiece over the rim of a freshly poured scotch. The conference room was devoid of any FBI related activity; Reid was poised to her right. The light was dim, a candle-like shimmer emanating from the screen before them. The blood of a decapitated man threw the room into a sultry red glow.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Reid said, and took a sip from his own tumbler, pinkie out the way her mother would have liked but mocked anyway. The headless man vanished with a click; in his place reposed a woman with her heart carved out.

"Look at the way his signature changes with each kill," she heard herself saying, with something horribly like admiration. "Do you think there's more than one unsub, or is he trying to throw us off?"

"Neither actually," Reid said. "I think he's just discovering himself."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," she said. The next slide was of the missing heart which, though a picture and not a video, began to beat before their eyes. They both topped off their glasses.

"Here's to life in the BAU!" he said, holding up what was suddenly a glass of champagne. Looking down, she saw with some disappointment that her booze had made the same transformation.

"...Yeah, no kidding," she muttered, and clinked her glass to his. The sound of glass rang, like the toll of a bell. "Cheers to being stuck."

"You're not stuck."

All at once Reid was very, very shirtless. And way too thin, the ribs showing through the thin whiteness of his skin, but it didn't look so bad in this light. Nothing looked too bad next to what they saw every day. Her hand was on his shoulder. The heartbeat seemed to swell, all but consuming her words.

"I can't help you," she said.

"Yes you can," he answered, and kissed her. It was this boldness, so out of sync with the real Reid, which told her she was dreaming, and it was this realization that expelled her back into the world.

Her eyes snapped open and she drew in a sharp breath -then coughed, choking on air.

What...the...fuck?

She sat up and shook her head, hard, dark hair flinging from side to side. The cough had not yet subsided, and her hand flew to her chest in an attempt to stifle it, fingers finding the scar by her breast. Great, like she needed to be reminded of that ugly mofo. And she'd only meant to lie down for a moment- the receding light outside her window told her hours had passed. What if Hotch had called and she'd missed it? What if Reid had-

Reid.

She stopped coughing.

_Reid_.

Bloody hell. It was one thing to be having dreams about her young co-worker, but kissing him, even if only in her subconscious mind, had to be violating some ancient FBI regulat-

Emily woke up a bit further, and carefully deleted the first part of that sentence.

Since it _wasn't_ one thing to be dreaming about her _very very much younger_ co-worker. It was unprofessional, and she'd spent most of her life proving she could be professional, dammit.

She sighed, kicking aside her blankets. At least the dreams had all taken place at work and not, y'know, a bar or something. That had to count for something; she believed in dream interpretation about as much as she believed in tarot or horoscopes, but couldn't dreams of a younger co-worker simply mean frustration with the job or something stupid like that? That was harmless, right? Not breaking any regulations there.

Except for the whole kissing thing.

She gave her silent phone a glare; if only Hotch had called, she could have been spared all this weirdness. Since that's what this was. The idea of kissing Reid was definitely weird. The idea of kissing Reid was-

She decided not to think about the idea of kissing Reid anymore.

_Cougar_, a nasty little voice in her head remarked-

-She decided NOT to think about the idea of kissing Reid. Or the whole dreaming business, really. It would go away in a few weeks.

Which was, of course, what she'd told herself a few weeks ago.

Repeatedly.

But then...they'd only been dreams about After Summers, as she liked to call it. She was so afraid he'd be hit by that bullet. Her subconscious went over it again and again the nights she spent in the hospital room. In one (the only one she could remember with any clarity) the bullet had literally shattered him like a porcelain doll, one of his doe-like brown eyes landing at her feet, staring up at her.

Before that, there was After Cyrus.

The After Cyrus dreams weren't so much about danger; they were about relief. The embrace in the shadow of the fire...the way he'd been scared to look at her in the station...when he'd held her hand on the jet...

But those were understandable. There was no...no inappropriate office behaviour. They'd come about as a reaction to stress and fear of losing what she now knew to be a very dear friend. She had no idea what could have caused-

_(...eyelids flickering; soft, smooth skin under her fingertips...)_

...Oh, motherballs.

**XxXxX**

She got out of bed. She had a shower, got dressed, poured herself a drink and downed it. Then another, to help her face the music.

So, she was a bit attracted to him. Big deal. Happened all the time; she'd had similar feelings towards both Hotch and Morgan when she'd first arrived on the team. Then she realized that flirting over dead bodies was kind of un-cool and that was that.

Not that she'd ever dreamt of Hotch or Morgan.

_More importantly_, Reid was her friend. A complex, sometimes baffling friend, but a very good one nonetheless; and she was beginning to understand him. Just beginning to navigate the labyrinth he called a mind. And didn't he deserve someone who understood him? Someone without an ulterior motive?

Anyway, it was just a crush. It would fade with time.

She sat with folded hands, awaiting a dissenting opinion from her brain. To her satisfaction, none came. She poured herself another drink in celebration.

Now that she was certain the whole incident wasn't a mark of approaching insanity, she thought back on the details of the dream. Funny, how'd she been more disturbed by the kiss than by the images on the screen. That, she supposed, was to be expected. The price of working with horrors during the day was they tended to make a stage of the night. _Profiling: Side-affects may include fucked-up naps. _

So it wasn't like they were erotic dreams or anything. You'd have to be an unsub yourself to find a beating, severed heart sexy.

The fact that he'd been half-naked notwithstanding.

And, y'know, he may not be a beef cake like Morgan but there really wasn't anything wrong with a slimmer physique on a man-

She raised her glass and, with a sense of purpose, forced herself to knock it back in one gulp. The aftertaste hit her like a train.

But it didn't help.

_Great,_ she thought. _I'm a cougar for an overgrown kid in tweed._

Right then and there, she decided Hotch's phone call could go to Hell. She was gonna get piss-drunk.

**XxXxX**

Reid pulled a chair from the kitchen and placed it facing his front door, planting himself in it with crossed arms. He'd intended to look stern and authoritative -like Hotch, basically- except after ten minutes of scowling at the innocent peephole he began to break out of character, scratching at his ear and checking his watch. Twenty minutes in he made a quick trek to his bedroom to fetch a Sudoku notebook. May as well keep busy, after all. He was breezing through his thirtieth puzzle when Gideon finally returned.

"You're back!" he exclaimed, tossing the book and pencil over his shoulder. He bounced in his seat like he was going to get up, but opted instead to re-adopt his Hotch-pose. The whole motion was rather undignified but if he looked angry enough, maybe the older man would take the Hint.

Gideon, stripping out his jacket, looked at Reid's face; he seemed utterly indifferent to the Hint. "Sorry I took so long. The saleswoman I spoke with was incompetent. What's the matter with you?" he added the enquiry as an afterthought, like Reid's possible unhappiness was more annoyance than anything else.

Reid swallowed, "About earlier today..."

"I thought you might say that," Gideon said. "Look, I'm sorry for being so harsh. I picked something up to make up for it." He crouched down by his shopping bags -the environmentally friendly kind, Reid noticed- and pulled out a long thin box. It had been gift-wrapped; it took him a few seconds to realize it was being offered to him. A present. Blinking and stuttering, he took it and settled the package on his knees. It was heavy. He examined the shiny red paper- then looked up at his old mentor, confused. Gideon was smiling his old crooked smile, in a way Reid used to think of as warm. "I'm not trying to buy you off; I just want it to be like old times again. Open it."

The younger agent didn't move, feeling the weight of his gift dig into his thighs. He breathed in deep, trying to resist the squiggly warm gratitude waiting to ambush his system. He didn't need or want presents from this or any man, but it was practically instinct for him to accept any form of affection, the way a man lost in the desert accepts water. So badly he just wanted to open whatever this present was, take it as a sign that all was well and forgive and forget. Especially forget.

And maybe he would, he admitted to himself. But first...but first he had to know.

Gathering his courage, he said: "Jason, why are you here?"

Gideon stiffened.

"Why haven't you told anyone else you're back? Where are you even back _from_? If you care about me so much, why haven't you ever called or even written?"

"You wouldn't understand," Gideon said. His eyes were narrowed; the way, Reid distinctly recalled, they'd been when he called Garcia 'stupid.'

"I _would_ understand!" he yelled. "You won't even give me a chance. I-" The truth spilled out, and even he was surprised to see its face. "I-I want it to be like old times too. Really, really bad actually. But it can't be unless you _get over yourself!_"

The words hung in the air like a scythe, unsure whose neck to come down on. To Gideon's credit, he didn't seem mad -which was good, because Reid didn't know what he would do if he started yelling at him (cry, probably)—he just seemed...stuck. As if he had a genuine secret to protect. _Bullshit,_ thought the younger agent, and waited.

After awhile the older man spoke; the words came slowly, water leaking out of a plugged drain: "I drove cross-country. I visited old friends. Got back in touch with my old life. Sarah -you remember Sarah, don't you?- was a...very good friend of mine. I needed space from the BAU, and I'm sorry Spencer, but you are part of the BAU. I'm back now because I've rebuilt my bridges, and I want both my lives to come together again. Old times." He smiled again; a pale imitation of its earlier counterpart. Guilt tugged at him for destroying the man's simple pleasure at giving him a gift. But guilt wasn't enough to stop him.

"If you were re-building old bridges, then why hasn't Stephen heard from you in over three years?" he said. "No offence, but you'd think you'd wanna be making noodle-soup for your son rather than your old co-worker. Or is he not worth the trip? I know 20 minute drives can be gruelling, but-"

"When did you become so cynical?" Gideon asked sadly.

"Oh, I dunno, maybe it's because I've had people lying to me my whole life. Y'know my father lived ten minutes away from me and I never knew? Stephen and I could have lots to talk about. Now would-would you just answer the damn questions so we can both-"

"I have to go," Gideon interrupted. "I'm going to be late for my interview." Without another word he scooped up his shopping bags and retreated into the bedroom. Reid sat in silence. A few minutes later Gideon emerged, wearing a casual business sort of outfit that he'd never seen him wear before. They looked at each other sidelong; Reid now realized the mistake of arguing from a chair. It put his opponent at higher ground, giving him the illusion of power. A very convincing illusion. It occurred to him he was waiting for his old mentor to call the next shot.

He did. "I'm sorry, Spencer, if I've upset you. That was never the plan. After my interview, should I come back?"

Reid's eyes widened. _No!_ His mind cried out. _Don't make me decide this! _

"...Maybe it would be better if you didn't," he said. Gideon nodded and turned towards the door, making Reid jump: "Wait, but...but I guess you could...call?"

The older man didn't look back, didn't move. Finally, his fingers flexed at his side -a minute farewell, perhaps?- and then was out into the hall, the door clicking softly shut in his wake.

It took Reid a few minutes to realize he was shaking.

A few minutes after that, his attention was called to the unopened gift. Maybe he should have opened it...he really didn't want to hurt Gideon. At least, he didn't think he wanted to. Man, who knew these days? With trembling hands he began to unfold the package (he made sure never to rip nice paper; a habit passed down by his mother). With the wrapping removed, he saw the gift to be a wooden chess set. Hand-carved, the board folded with the pieces stored inside. The pieces themselves were marble; most likely made separate, more valuable than the board itself. He'd seen such a set over three years ago, while working on a case. He'd barely glanced at it, but he'd wanted it, and a glance was all a profiler needed.

A droplet of water hit a black square and splattered.

**XxXxX**

The ringing hit her brain like an ice-pick.

'Who the fuck is calling at this time?' she thought, and then remembered that it was actually not that late at all. Only ten thirty, and already hung over, not to mention alone. It was like being twenty again.

She picked up the phone, putting it gingerly to her ear, "Hello?"

"Hello, Prentiss?" It was Hotch. "Are you alright? You sound sick"

"Cold or something," she lied. "What took you so long?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"To call. You were supposed to call on the thirteenth."

"Today is the thirteenth."

"You mean it wasn't yesterday?"

"No."

She looked around at the empty tumblers surrounding her; at the makeshift nest she'd made on her couch, and then lowered her head into the crook of her elbow. "Are you shitting me?"

"I am not," said Hotch. "How would you feel about taking another week and a half off work?"

"Horrified."

"I was afraid you might say that. The higher-ups have decided that's how long your break will be. I tried to persuade them to shorten it, for your state of mind, but they insisted. You and Reid will be back on the same day."

"Fine. Whatever the Powers That Be say, I guess."

"Indeed. And Prentiss?"

"Mmmhmm?"

"I know that, scientifically speaking, caffeine does nothing for a hangover…"

"Right. Gotcha."

"Have a good evening, then." And they hung up. Did she catch a hint of amusement in his tone just then? Bastard.

She had the coffee brewing before she allowed herself to think much about the call. The smell was calming, and she was able to be a bit more objective; the first two and a half weeks had gone by rather quickly, how much harm could another do? She was just beginning to look forward to her time off when the phone rang again, puncturing her feel-good vibe.

It was her mother this time; "Emily! I expect you've gotten Agent Hotchner's call by now?"

Did everyone know the correct date except her? "Yeah, I just got off the phone with him, actually. How are you?"

"How long is your vacation time?"

Emily sighed, and got up to pour her coffee. "It's not vacation time, Mom, it's _recovery_ time. The bullet wound makes all the difference."

"Yes, well, you're already healed marvellously. Not surprising, you always were so…_physical._ Don't know where you get it from. Say," she said, and Emily thought '_ah, now we'll see what she wants._' "Why don't you come on a little road trip with your father and I? Seeing as you won't be busy, and all."

The coffee was too hot to drink; no way to stall. "What sort of road trip?"

"I'm going to doing some political rounds in Hawaii, and you can't go to Hawaii and not make a time of it. Only for a few days, of course."

"That's not a road trip; Hawaii is an island."

"Anyway, we're leaving the day after tomorrow, but I can get tickets anytime –you know I can—so let me know what you decide. Can I expect your call Emily?"

"I guess so. Can't guarantee I'll come."

"Whatever you decide."

And they hung up. Didn't anyone say goodnight anymore?

Emily carried her mug up the stairs and into her bedroom, curling up against a pillow on her bed. Now that she thought of it, it probably wasn't good to have caffeine so late at night. She'd end up with big purple circles under her eyes. Like Reid—

(_-)_

Hangovers: what the drink buries, they dig back up like a dog and drop at your feet, covered in slobber and mud. Drawing up all her great skill at mental separation, she placed her innocuous lust at the very back of her mind, and then considered Reid the Person instead of Reid the Surprisingly Sexy Figment of her Imagination. Would he be alright alone for…'a couple days,' as her mother so vaguely put it? Would the team need her? Did she really even want to spend a few days alone with her parents?

No, Reid wouldn't need her; he was a grown man, as she had to constantly remind herself, not some Chia pet the BAU had to keep their eye on. No, the team wouldn't need her, because if they did they would have called her back sooner. And to the last…well, her relationship with them was getting better every day.

But first –her hand reached for phone yet again, the third call in so few minutes—maybe she should ask Reid if he…well, she didn't know what, but she should probably ask Reid _something_. She imagined leaving without telling him, how he might call and listen to the rings right to her voice mail. It was so friggin' tragic; no, she had to ask him first, grown man or not.

She dialled his number and sat, thinking that he too was probably sitting in his apartment with a cup of coffee. His phone rang…

And rang…

And rang…

"Hello…"

"Spencer!" she said.

"…this is Dr. Spencer Reid's number, um, leave a message if you want to. Or need to. Or…not, I guess." A shrill beep made her head spin slightly.

She gulped coffee down like an elixir and then frowned at her phone, a little put out. That exact tragic scenario she'd just dreamed up for Reid just happened to her verbatim; the irony tasted bitter. After all, who did she think she was? His mother? He must be out, not sitting at home with coffee all alone like some kind of…like some kind _hermit._ Did she really think she was so much better than him? Here in the dark, hung-over and alone?

"I'm such a bitch sometimes," she muttered, and tossed her phone onto the other side of the bed. Then she snatched it back up and called her mother. A trip to Hawaii was probably exactly what a drunken bitch needs.

XxXxX

The day after Gideon left, Reid woke up at one in the afternoon. The very latest he'd ever slept in since he'd given up dilaudid. He felt shame mingle with his lingering rejection. Over fourteen hours of sleep. Generally over-sleeping was a symptom of depression, but Reid didn't think he was depressed. Depression was a clinical condition; this was purely emotional, and thus he couldn't fathom how to deal with it.

Gideon had never called after he walked out the door, and he'd never returned, just like Reid asked him not to. As far as he could tell, he'd vanished from his life a second time. Which was a good thing, probably; he wasn't stupid. But he was human, and humans generally never feel too good about being abandoned. Twice.

He dragged himself to a sitting position and glared at the opposite wall…or what of it he could see behind all the books. To think he had ten more whole days of this; he might be completely nocturnal by the time he was back at the BAU. Then he'd fail his trial, and then he'd be here, again, for good.

On top of it all, he had no one to make him breakfast anymore. So far this was a pretty shitty day. "And I wasn't even conscious for half of it," he muttered.

Ten minutes (that felt like twenty) later, Reid was in his kitchen, trying to puzzle out what to eat when there was no longer any microwavable food in the house, when his phone rang. His heart leapt –Gideon?—and then settled again when he saw the caller ID. It didn't sink exactly; he had plenty of reason to be happy to hear from Prentiss, but it was with unshakeable disappointment that he said, "Hi, what's up?"

"Reid? You okay? I've been calling you for ages, have you been partying or something?"

Partying. Ha. She was making a joke. "Not quite. Just…lost my cell."

"Oh, well I'm glad you found it." He could tell she didn't buy it, but he had no intention of telling her he'd slept in 'til noon. No doubt she knew the symptoms of depression, too.

There was a lot of background noise on her end; mostly voices, echoing for some reason... "Are you out somewhere?" Then, with sudden panic: "You're not back at work already, are you?"

"What? No. Just at the mall." A relief he couldn't quite understand washed through him. "I gotta find a one-piece swimsuit for tomorrow, preferably one from the 1950's."

"A swimsuit?" he said. "What for?"

"Well, that's the thing," she said. "I'm going on a trip with my parents. To Hawaii, of all places. I just thought you should know."

Oh.

He sank down onto his dish-washing stool, staring down at his linoleum floor. She was leaving on some fabulous vacation. He recalled how well-travelled she was, all the languages she spoke so fluently…he guessed you get out a lot when you're the ambassador's daughter. The books surrounding him seemed to become more threatening; no longer tomes of knowledge but the building blocks of a prison. The beaches of Hawaii seemed very far from his apartment.

"How long will you be gone?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. Mom never gives a straight answer." He knew what that was like. "Listen, I'm sorry we won't be able to hang out any more, at least not for a bit. But it's not that long 'til we're back at the BAU, just…" she seemed to hesitate, like she was struggling with herself. "...take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah, no problem," he said.

"Alright. I gotta go; these women keep coming at me with thongs. See you later, Spencer."

"See you."

He took his phone from his ear, ended the call, and stared at it. It would not ring again for ten days.

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: This was originally two chapters, but got meshed into one during editing. So this fic will now be 23 chapters long instead. I'll make up for it!_

_Anyway, characterization. Prentiss strikes me as, next to Rossi, the most self-aware of the group. So when she has a bizarre violent/sexual dream about Reid, she knows something's up. Reid had a dream about a cutesy date with her and still doesn't get it. D'oy. I wanted there to be two dream sequences, because it's that exact contrast of innocence/intellectualism and experience/physicality that I think makes Reid/Prentiss interesting as a couple. OK RAMBLE OVER._

_Next week, Reid's suspension is up and we're back in the BAU! Also, please leave a review. They make me smile, even the critical ones. _

_See you Thursday!_


	7. Chapter 7: The Team

**XxXxX**

**Chapter 7: The Team**

**XxXxX**

The elevator doors opened with a lifeless little ding, revealing a stiff and blinking Dr. Reid. Just as before, agents and secretaries flooded the hallway, each making their rounds without eye contact or speech, all lost in the bubble of their duties. An image came to his mind, of the elevator doors opening and himself stepping into a crowd with their eyes on him, all wearing party hats, a giant sign overhead reading "Welcome back, Spencer!" But no; the BAU was as cold and efficient as it ever was. He wouldn't have had it any other way.

Satisfied that maybe life could go back to normal, he entered the fray with a new bounce in his step. Physically, he felt great; he was clean shaven, he'd done all his laundry the night before and the feel of morning sun on his felt somehow fresher. There was also a certain satisfaction in packing his go-bag and satchel the night before; he'd even gotten a new deck of cards and a bag of fun-sized Snickers bars to celebrate. More than that, people were acknowledging him. Just a few nods here and there, a few small smiles, some from people he didn't know but whom he recognized from just around the building. Now he could see the door to Hotch's office, and Rossi's, and yes—the conference room. Morgan was pacing around by the window, and he hadn't seen Reid yet. He was looking forward to whatever jibe the older man had planned for him today.

He didn't think it was entirely healthy to think so, but he was glad to be home.

"Spence!"

He'd barely turned around when he found himself caught in a loose hug. At first all he could see was a mass of blonde hair, and then JJ stepped into view, that small private smile of hers on her face. He felt himself blush; JJ was usually the last person to display affection in public.

"Uh, hi?"

"Hotch told me you were coming back today," she said. "I gotta say, I'm relieved. We sort of suck without you."

"I _highly_ doubt that."

"No, it's true," said a significantly less subdued voice behind him. He turned and saw Garcia stretching out her arms to him, in that universal signal for 'hugs!' When he hesitated, she laughed and gave him a mock-punch on the shoulder. "Listen, Boy Wizard, you've officially lost all vacation rights. I may be a sexy proxy goddess, but it takes two geniuses to run this team."

"I'm not sure what that says about the rest of us," JJ said.

"My lovelies are all brilliant, some just require supervision."

Up in the conference room, Reid saw Morgan looking down on them, and felt his ego boost at the huge grin on his co-workers face. A second later, Morgan was fast- approaching them down the stairs, with Rossi in tow. They were forming a small crowd and drawing everyone's attention, but for once in his life, he didn't mind.

"Look at this, here two minutes and already he's stolen all the ladies," Morgan said. "Good to see you, pretty boy."

"Good to see you didn't die of boredom," Rossi added.

"Uh," he grasped for something witty to say. "Close, but no cigar." When nobody responded he cleared his throat, perhaps a little too loudly. "So JJ, we have a case?"

"We do, but I can't present it until Strauss is done with Hotch."

"Done with him?" he said, startled. "What's she doing with him?"

"We don't know, but we imagine it's painful," Rossi said.

"Sorry Reid, but it's probably about you," Morgan said. The rest of the team shot him warning looks, but he didn't seem to notice. "She's been calling him in more and more the closer it got to today, your day back."

"Great."

"It might also be about Prentiss, by that logic," JJ said. "Today is her day back as well."

This startled him; Prentiss was coming back today? If so, where was she? He began scanning the large office out of the corners of his eyes, but no shapely dark-haired women were about. No doubt sensing his thoughts, JJ added, "She called ahead and said she may be a bit late. But at this rate it won't matter how late she is, we'll probably still be waiting for Strauss to make a decis—."

"Reid," Rossi was looking at something. Reid followed his gaze, and felt his heart rise into his throat; Hotch was standing in the hallway, his expression set and unreadable, eyes trained on him. He was being beckoned into the lions den.

"Looks like it's not about Prentiss," Morgan gave him a look of deep sympathy –or perhaps concern—and stepped aside. With a small nod to his coworkers, he left the safety of his crowd.

"Good to have you back," Hotch said. Any normal person would detect no change in the Supervisory Agent's tone and inflection, but Reid knew better.

Strauss's office was more or less exactly the same as Reid remembered it, and this did nothing to ease his nerves—after all, the last time he was here he was suspended. As before, Strauss reposed behind her desk, hands folded and her posture unyielding. There was however one key difference; that of the man who sat directly across from her, resting his cheek in his palm and gazing off into the distance.

"Gideon?"

Gideon turned, and at once Reid knew how this was going to be. Gideon was going to pretend this was the first time they'd come face to face in years, as if the last few weeks hadn't happened: "Spencer. It's good to see you."

"I'm sorry Reid, I was as surprised this morning as you are now," Hotch murmured. Strauss shot him a dark look.

"Don't speak of other agents as if they aren't in the room, Agent Hotchner. I have come to understand that this situation is rather tense, but Agent Gideon and Dr. Reid are both adults, and they will behave as such without your commentary."

"_Agent_ Gideon?"

"Yes, Agent," Strauss replied. "For the moment, at least." She leaned back in her chair, regarding her three underlings the way a cat regards cornered mice. "Please, sit down."

Hotch moved quickly to take the middle chair, as if to use himself as a physical shield for Reid against Gideon. It was sort of touching, but the profiler in him knew that Gideon could read that behaviour just as well as he could, and he wasn't sure he wanted Gideon to know he was still 'the protected one.' Casting the thought out of his mind (or else die of embarrassment), he took the third chair, and remained silent.

"We are in a rather unique situation," Strauss began. "A month ago, the unfortunate incident with Agent Prentiss occurred, and Dr. Reid here was suspended. My original intention was to have him return to work at the end of his suspension, but have him monitored to see if he is truly capable of doing his work without disobeying direct orders and endangering others. Truthfully, I expected you to pass that inspection with flying colours, and not only for your team's inherent secretiveness. I thought to myself, he may be impulsive and sentimental, but how could we possibly replace him? I couldn't, so determining the outcome was simple, at the time. Now, things are not so simple. Now I have an alternative."

Reid became aware that his heart-rate was picking up speed; he spared a quick glance to his left and saw Hotch, stormy but silent, and Gideon, entirely serene. A sudden rush of maliciousness made him want to kick that peaceful expression off the older man's face.

Strauss continued: "Halfway through your suspension, Agent Gideon shows up at my office. He has a few important papers signed by important people, and he wants his old position back. Trouble is, there's a very limited amount of space on a team of profilers. I trust you see where this is going?"

"You're firing me?" Reid said. His voice sounded far away, even to his ears.

"No, not quite. As I've said before, you are an asset to the team and to the BAU in general. Many cases would be cold by now if not for your analysis. Somewhat more pressingly, Agent Gideon hardly has a clean slate himself." Here she turned her gaze onto the older man, who only continued to smile. "He has not only endangered lives with his carelessness, he has extinguished several, though his many years of work are otherwise devoid of such things. Though one must take his rather unprofessional departure into account. Tell me, Gideon, how do we know you're not going to take off on another two year road trip?"

"If I had any wish to be anywhere but here, I wouldn't be here," he said simply.

"Basically it comes to this," she said, as if she hadn't heard him speak. "I'm taking you both onto Hotch's team for a supervised trial period. Whoever puts forth the most satisfactory work, will be allowed to stay. The other will not. I must stress that this situation is unique, and so must the terms be. That is all."

_**XxXxX**_

The elevator opened with a ding, and Emily stepped into the busy hallway, her go-bag on her hip and a cup of coffee clutched in her hand. Half an hour late…mortifying. If she was lucky, maybe she could catch the jet before she got ditched here with the paperwork. She wrinkled her nose at the thought…and winced as the sunburn across her nose stung. Somehow, she'd ended up with a red stripe where her face used to be, and she felt patently ridiculous. But never mind…the team, she saw, was still in the conference room, which meant she probably wasn't as late as she thought. Eager to be back at work and with the team, she rushed past her desk without dropping off any of her stuff and headed straight up the stairs and into the room, where her eyes fell upon Jason Gideon.

The team turned and looked at her, apparently in the middle of briefing. A slide of a severed head made an unpleasant backdrop to the scene, as if even the dead were surprised to see her.

"Welcome back, tall dark and dangerous," Garcia said. It did not lighten the mood.

"…Bwuh?" It was the best she could come up with.

Gideon smiled; she could only assume he was used to this by now. "You look well, Prentiss."

"I'll explain everything on the jet," Hotch said. "In the meantime, sit down; we only have fifteen minutes until wheels up."

So she sat, pushing all questions at once to the back of her mind, and focused on the slide of the head. Yet, even as JJ began to get back into the rhythm of her briefing, Prentiss felt her attention being pulled elsewhere. Almost of their own accord, her eyes slid from the screen to Reid, sitting a few people away and staring at the slides, as if he thought he could find the unsub lurking within their bloody depths.

She remembered two years ago, standing alone with Reid in a street so full of light the world appeared fully white behind him.

_"Do you wanna talk about it?"_

_"What's there to talk about, right?"_

_"…Gideon…"_

"—everyone get your go-bags, this unsub is escalating fast, we may only have a few hours before he strikes again-."

She blinked. Without her even realizing it, the briefing was over.

_**XxXxX**_

Things were quiet on the jet.

They went over their theories and Hotch assigned their duties, as usual, but every time Gideon spoke silence washed over them. Hotch responded to him, if with a put-upon air, but only Rossi was able to be jovial and…well, friendly wasn't the word. David Rossi was never friendly. Perhaps he was simply unafraid, his own age and experience enabling him to look down on Gideon and see something inconsequential. (Which only deepened her respect for the man, and her respect wasn't shallow). On the opposite end of the spectrum, Reid never spoke at all, unless directly addressed by Hotch. It was a cold flight, despite her happiness to be back.

She noticed Gideon and Reid never looked at each other; this was odd. On whatever terms they may have parted on, she knew Gideon loved Reid. Or else he wouldn't have left that letter for him. And Gideon, in his way, WAS a friendly man. Reid was known to shy away from even the most basic interactions, but she didn't see why Gideon would behave the same.

But she knew there were more important things right now. She was a profiler again; back in the job she hadn't expected to miss so much. There were lives on the line, and though her profiler senses were definitely tingling, whatever was going on here would have to wait.

No matter how sad Spencer looked.

_**XxXxX**_

"I'm glad you're back," Reid said to her in the New York Police Station. He was behind her and the phrase was said very quietly; it was also the first thing he'd said to her since she arrived. Nevertheless, she was happy to hear it.

"So am I," she said. "Glad that I'm back and glad that you're here too, I mean." She turned to smile at him; he smiled back, if a bit wistfully. Gideon was far ahead, keeping pace with Hotch. She wanted to ask if he was okay…but Rossi was only a few feet behind them, casually ignoring their conversation, but she knew he could hear just fine. Rossi hadn't been present for the whole Gideon-leaving drama, or the effect it had on their youngest team member, and she had no intention of informing him. So instead she simply asked, "How was your week?"

He shrugged. "Uneventful. I had classes on the weekend. Wrote an article on the link between sexuality and cannibalism, and whether or not such a link even exists. I argued it does."

"Cool," she said, a little uneasily. "Going to find anyone to publish it?"

Up ahead, Hotch stopped to shake hands with the police chief, and Reid's eyes were fixed on him. As if it was a throwaway statement: "The magazine _asked_ me to write it."

She had to laugh. It was just so _Reid_.

They caught up with the rest of the group, and now she could hear the chief talking. His voice was brash and he spoke quickly, but the notes of both contempt and fear were easily distinguishable.

"—the media is giving him names already. Nothings stuck yet, but you bet something will if he kills again. Don't you people talk about cooling periods or something? 'Cause he doesn't have one. We've had three bodies just this week, and we keep finding them faster."

"Then he must be escalating," Hotch said.

"And quickly," Morgan added.

"You say you found the heads and the bodies in separate areas," Hotch continued. "Is there any indication from the autopsy reports that he's keeping them alive before he decapitates them?"

"Like what?"

Prentiss was unable to keep the disgust from her voice: "Were they sexually assaulted?"

"There was nothing about them being raped, but they'd all had sex before they died. Unprotected sex, is what they said. I thought that might be part of their…victimology? But I guess, how would he know…"

The team all exchanged grim looks. The Chief, Prentiss had to admit, caught on pretty quickly.

"Oh, shit. You don't mean he…?"

"It's a possibility," Hotch said. "I wouldn't mention anything to the families. Do you have a space where we can work?"

"Oh, absolutely," the Chief said, slightly startled. "And don't worry about me telling the folks…I wish I didn't know. Jesus. We gotta catch this bastard."

Rossi shouldered past her: "We will."

_**XxXxX**_

Seven victims, in total, all found between increasingly short cool-down times over the last three weeks. Prentiss looked at the pictures with a nurtured sense of detachment; the bodies were naked and headless, splayed in alleyways and haphazardly covered by trash. The heads were found and matched to bodies later; there had been an actual attempt to hide them. Weighted with rocks stuffed in their mouths and dropped into water. The unsub apparently never checked which way the current ran. Five of the seven heads had been found washed up, and all five had their eyes crudely carved out. The eyes were still missing. Her heart briefly felt a pang for whatever poor beach-goer had discovered them, but she quickly reigned it back in. There'd be more if she didn't concentrate.

But every few minutes she kept looking up between Reid and Gideon. Gideon was considering the photos gravely, but Reid had scanned them with his eyes just once and looked away. She suddenly realized that with his eidetic memory, Reid would never lose the image of those five, eyeless heads. They would remain, as fresh as if he'd just found them in the sand himself. The idea made her a bit sick.

"Well it's obvious this guy hates women," Morgan sounded as if he'd taken a very large first step. Prentiss thought she knew why. "He leaves them in the most undignified position possible, and in piles of trash. Clearly he thinks _they're_ trash."

"None of them have shady backgrounds; all seven were reasonably successful single women," Rossi said. He was at ease, just as on the plane. "Which means it wasn't what they did, but who they were. Just the fact of their womanhood offended him."

"Not if he's only attacking unmarried, professional women. If it was _all_ women, he wouldn't have a specific type," Hotch corrected.

"You think it could just be that they were independent?" Prentiss asked.

"He cuts off their heads, and abandons them without remorse," Rossi said. "By taking away their face and their clothes, he takes away their identity. Makes them less than human."

"But then what about the eyes?" JJ asked. They all stopped to think, and Prentiss felt a familiar guilty thrill. They were on a roll, a team again. Picking apart the criminal, each piece leading them slightly closer. There was a synchrony about them that felt so powerful, sometimes.

But then, like a stone against glass; "The eyes are about removing their human identity," Gideon said. He was looking down at his hands, speaking as if to himself. "Even if everything else personal is removed, the eyes are necessary. They are the windows to the soul."

He was right, of course; it was obvious. Yet she couldn't help but wish he had never spoken. The rhythm was lost, and the team first looked at each other then to Hotch. But Gideon continued.

"It's also likely he's keeping the eyes as his trophies; male killers very rarely pass up the chance to keep trophies," he said. "Then, he gets to keep _them_, even if they themselves don't."

"In any case, we should be at the crime scenes trying to find clues," Hotch interrupted. "Rossi and Gideon, you go to the site the first body was found; Morgan and I will go to the last. We need to find out exactly how much his behaviour has changed in three weeks. Reid, Prentiss, you two get Garcia on the speaker and work geography and victimology."

"I'm not leaving the station?" she asked.

"Not when you're still recovering from a gunshot wound. And don't tell me you're one-hundred percent, you're not."

She hated it when her boss was right.

She and Reid sat as the team got up to leave; but then, to her and probably everyone's surprise, Gideon stopped behind Reid's chair and, with very little emotion, uttered, "Good luck."

Her friend did not look up, or respond right away. He just quickly shifted his eyes to the desk, expression tightened. If he was working up the nerve to answer (or perhaps, she thought, deciding HOW to answer), Gideon left the room before he managed it. JJ and Morgan shot their team-mate sympathetic looks he couldn't see, and then left. Hotch looked as if he were about to comment, but then opted not to and followed. Rossi gave Reid a firm pat on the shoulder as he passed; perhaps he didn't know exactly what was going on, but any profiler worth his salt could sense tension when it was right in front of him. Reid did not react to the touch.

"You okay?" she asked, once the sounds of the team had long faded. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah, uh, fine," he said. "We should probably get to work."

"If you want to talk about it…"

"This really isn't the time," he said. Her heart sank, though she was expecting that response.

But he looked away again, eyelashes fluttering as if something unusual had just occurred to him. Then, phrased more like a question than a statement: "But ah, maybe…later? Would that be…okay?"`

"Yes," she said. "As long as it's okay with you."

"It is?"

She smiled, "If you're sure."

"I am." He was even more surprised than her, it seemed. "Anyway, profile."

"Right." She said. "Profile."

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: Prentiss has become hyper-aware of Reid. Gee, I wonder why that is? Also, a reviewer asked if this story would eventually be rated M. Abso-freakin-lutely! But let's not get ahead of ourselves...XD_

_Reviews make me smile, even the critical ones, so please leave one if you've read this far. See you Monday!_


	8. Chapter 8: All the World a Stage

XxXxX

**Chapter Eight: All the World a Stage**

XxXxX

It was one thirty in the morning when the knock sounded on her hotel room door. Prentiss was already in bed, staring up at the ceiling, both hoping for the knock and yet not entirely expecting it. The sound itself was soft and slow, hesitant…if she'd been listening to music or already half-asleep, she would have missed it. As it was, she was wide awake, and feeling strangely eager. It was, she thought, rather similar to that exhilaration she sometimes felt when the team was working a case; like the pieces were slowly coming together.

She got up and approached the door. Her room was nice enough, but had that distinct offness that all hotel rooms shared. As if they'd been decorated by a grandmother who refused to admit her age, the floral patterns and the mini-bar at odds. Through the peephole in the door she could see Reid, rocking back and forth on his heels and looking more bubble-headed than ever through the distortion of the lens.

'_He looks like a Disney cartoon,'_ she thought, and opened the door.

"Hey."

"Hey," he said. "I'm sorry, I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Nope. Couldn't sleep," she didn't add, '_because I was waiting for you._' "What's up?"

"Remember how you asked if I wanted to talk? I think I kinda do."

"Fair enough, I'm all ears," she smiled. They stood there for awhile; then she realized he probably didn't want to talk in the middle of the hallway. "Oh! Come in. Er, sorry about the mess." Half her go-bag was thrown in a pile on the ground; she lost her toothbrush in its depths earlier. She wished she'd had the foresight to tidy up. "Want a drink?"

"Maybe," he said, to her surprise. "Maybe a tiny bit of…I bet you have scotch."

"You know me well, Dr. Reid."

He smiled, a little, "Just a _bit_."

She poured two tumblers of scotch (one considerably fuller than the other), and then led him to the small sitting area by the window. The chairs were stiff and the pattern was ghastly, but the shape was modern and sharp. 'What crack head designed this?' she wondered. On a whim she opened the curtains, revealing the bright and busy city. She loved a good view of a city; it seemed a testimony that the world of man could be beautiful, and not always horrific. Millions of people going on with and enjoying their lives…no unsub could extinguish that. In any case, it drew her eyes away from the hideous décor.

Looking over at Reid, she saw his gaze, too, was on the city below. His expression was impassive, but she knew that his mind was never quiet. His mind and the city had that in common, she supposed. Always in motion. Always full of bright lights. The headlights of moving cars created a series of revolving white stars on his face and chest, on his hands clutched around his scotch.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"About what I would do if I lost this job," he said, with surprising plainness. "I never considered anything else."

"No? You're good at lots of things. Not to mention qualified for ten times more."

"I want to do _good._ Actually help people. People like Riley Jenkins. What other job gives you that? I can write articles, but an article is only as powerful as the person who reads it. I can be a professor, or…well, anything I want, really. Even Morgan said so. But nothing else seems like an actual option."

There was a long silence. Reid's eyes hadn't lifted from the window, the stars moving almost in time to his words.

"Ever considered becoming a model?"

He looked up, startled. "What?"

"Nothing. Just making a joke."

He frowned, looking as if he was going to ask her to explain the mechanics of her joke…but then he seemed to think better of it, looking away with a few blinks.

"Did Hotch tell you about Strauss's decision?"

"Yeah," now she looked away. His expression was too dark to watch too closely. "He took me aside after he told the team to head in. I'm so sorry."

"Hmm," he said. "What do you think my chances are of getting to stay?"

"Pretty damn good. Listen. All joking aside, you're one of the best. She can't just ignore that."

"Gideon was THE best."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't say that with Rossi in the room."

He smiled. That was a good sign.

All of a sudden she was very aware that she was in her pyjamas. She'd completely forgotten! Embarrassment flooded her, but at the same time she didn't think Reid had entirely noticed. He was too lost in his own thoughts. At least her pjs weren't particularly revealing…just an old t-shirt and plaid shorts. Reid, however, was still fully dressed, as put together as he had been when he was on the job. More put together than he'd been when he was suspended and mostly kept to his apartment, she noticed. Briefly considering getting up to put a robe on –most of her legs were exposed, after all, considerably more leg than her co-worker had ever been permitted to see before—she decided against it. Reid was just here to talk; this she knew.

That's all she wanted anyway. To talk, that is.

"Um, Emily?"

In truth she was rather glad to have her thoughts interrupted. Her mind was…wandering. "Uh, yeah?"

"I'm going to tell you something I haven't told anyone yet. Is that okay?"

"Sure," she said, surprised. "As long as it's okay with you."

He was silent again for a long time.

'_He better not be about to come out to me or something,_' she thought, and then quickly muffled whatever entitled part of her brain that came from.

"I'm pretty sure I am okay with it," he finally answered. "But this is a secret, okay? You can't tell the team. Especially not Hotch or Morgan or…well, just don't tell the team."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

She was beginning to feel like she was in grade-school again. "I promise, Reid. As long as it's not dangerous to you or anyone else, that is." She added, quickly.

"That's fair," he said. "Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was I…" he swallowed. "I already knew Gideon was back."

"I don't understand."

"He came to me before he came to the BAU. The day I was suspended, in fact," he was smiled ironically down at his tumbler, before taking what was probably the Reid equivalent of a large swig from it. It was the first he'd had of the scotch she poured him, and so she knew that this, this right here, was what he really wanted to talk about.

"He came to you first?" she asked, softly. He nodded.

"He actually, ah, sort of moved in." This was getting weirder by the minute. "I didn't argue, at least not at first. I didn't know what to think. I remembered what you told me when he left. I thought about that quite a lot, actually."

She was surprised he remembered; she'd never been sure if she'd actually gotten through the noise of pain he must have been experiencing at the time. But she remained silent, listening.

"You said that he must have left the letter to me because I meant something to him. I figured out that's what you said anyway, after a long time. I think it would have been easier if anyone else had been saying the same, but it was only you. You have this habit of saving me, you know," he glanced up at her, then down again. Prentiss felt some foreign emotion rise up in her chest, into her throat and behind her eyes. "Anyway, you said what no one else did and I moved on. But then he came back, and I thought, well, why only come here unless I STILL meant something to him? Why have this big secret, only with me?"

"Exactly," she said.

"But he didn't have any secrets with me," he said flatly. "He didn't want to tell me anything. He barely wanted to speak with me. Mostly he wanted to cook food and do my laundry. Like he was paying some kind of debt or…or relieving guilt. I think that's what it was. 'Remorse,' just like when an unsub tidies up the body of the person they just murdered. In the end it's only aesthetic."

"Did he tell you he was coming back to the BAU, at least?"

"Not at all. He told me he was getting a job interview. I told him to get out, and he did. I didn't see him again until the day I came back to work."

"Where he's now vying for your job," she said. "Shit."

He nodded.

"Pretty much."

While Reid polished off his drink, Prentiss considered all that was said. On the one hand, she now knew what had been bothering him all that time they'd hung out together. She remembered with sudden clarity the phone call he'd disconnected instead of picking up, and (this memory was even vaguer—it had seemed inconsequential at the time) the way he'd rushed out of his apartment and slammed the door behind him the first time she took him out for lunch. Like he was hiding something. She knew now that Gideon had been just behind the door all along. She'd been lied to…sort of. How easily his stress could have been explained, perhaps even better dealt with, if only he'd let her know what the problem was.

But on the other hand, she had to recognize that Reid, for whatever reason, was letting her in on the secret. He was trusting her with something he'd told no one, not even Hotch or Morgan.

For some reason, she remembered a conversation with Rossi. Or rather, THE conversation with Rossi. When she'd told him about Matthew, about Italy. That was also something she'd trusted with no one, not even her mother. It occurred to her that Reid's mother, in all likelihood, also knew nothing of this.

"Can I ask a question?" she said, unable to keep silent. When he nodded, she continued: "Why have you kept this a secret? You could have told Hotch, or even Strauss. Or, well, me. It's not like we weren't in touch."

She heard footsteps in the next room; Hotch's room. The team leader rarely slept full nights when they were working a case. Perhaps he longed to be back behind his desk, or back at the police station, where he could do good instead of lounging out of any unsub's reach. More pressingly, this meant their conversation would have to be cut short soon. Being in each other's rooms this late was not only wasting valuable resting hours (they had very few, and evil doesn't take naps), but was entirely inappropriate. Work-colleagues weren't supposed to be up at one in the morning drinking and talking out their feelings. She could see by the flicker and set of Reid's eyes that he also heard the noise, and also knew their time was cut short. So it was that he answered her query in a whisper:

"It was what you said that stopped me. That I meant something. I thought, if he has reasons for not showing himself to the rest of you, then they must be good, and I guess I just wanted to be flattered that it was me he came to. I don't feel that way anymore," he added, rather prosaically.

Prentiss wasn't sure what to make of that. She wasn't even sure that he answered her question so much as repeated himself. But on some level she felt she understood; some things, she was careful to remind herself, are simply private, if for reasons we don't always understand.

But she had one last question, "Why tell me?"

His answer was quick, "Because I trust you. We're friends, right?" He said it as if he was surprised she'd ask. His lips slightly parted and his eyebrows furrowed, afraid he'd made some mistake, some error in judgement. His earnestness was touching.

"Yes, we are," she said. Then: "Good ones, I think."

He stared. "Do you know nobody has ever said they were a 'good' friend of mine? Morgan will admit he's my friend, and JJ made me Henry's Godfather so it was implied…but no one's ever said it out loud. Thanks."

"Oh," she hadn't expected THAT response. "You're welcome."

He stood, "I have to go."

Was it horrible she was glad to see regret on his face? "I know."

"See you tomorrow then, I guess. Thanks for listening."

"Anytime."

With that, as anti-climactic as anything, she showed him to the door, bid him goodnight, and shut it behind him. When she crawled back into bed she had only a few minutes of quiet contemplation before falling asleep.

Her dreams found much fodder in the conversation…and in the way the lights had played on his skin.

XxXxX

Reid left Emily's room with a small smile and bit of zip in his step, despite the hour and the light buzz he felt from the scotch (he was very glad he'd told her to go light on the liquor…there was just no way he could hold a full glass and not be sick). His room was around the corner from hers, between JJ and Morgan's, and he found himself looking forward to the cool clean sheets. The fact-aholic in him knew that hotel bed sheets were actually chronically filthy (being that even the average Western bed harboured more germs than an average Western toilet), yet somehow he felt he didn't care. Reid the intellectual was already asleep, exhausted from the day; the statistics and tidbits and quotes that usually urged their way to the front of his mind were strangely impotent at the moment. For once in his life, he could honestly say he wasn't thinking much at all.

Which is why he almost didn't notice when Gideon turned the corner before he did, heading towards the ice machine in his pjs. Gideon didn't start at Reid's appearance, only carefully averted his eyes, though he did so with a small, almost wistful smile on his face. Reid may not have been fully awake (and perhaps not fully himself), but he still felt a pang of annoyance at that smile. How, in his younger days, had he ever mistaken that self-indulgent little smirk for wisdom?

Opting to pretend as if the older man had not appeared, he continued on his way, carefully readjusting his thoughts to their previous peaceful blankness. Behind him, he could hear Gideon pause…and then continue on his way.

Keep walking, he thought, before all his attention turned to the simple task of sleep.

_**XxXxX**_

The ninth body was found on the third day; the woman had gone missing on the second. Barely half an hour after the eighth body was uncovered. Her name was Kathy; Reid knew he would never forget, but he committed it to memory anyway. Kathy Rosalyn Gates. Too often were the names of the victims forgotten, and the murderer remembered forever. The media had finally settled on the 'Soul Stealer' as his pet-name, the name everyone could use when they gossiped and theorized. But Kathy, who now lay naked in an alleyway, head intact but eyes removed, would not be forgotten. Not by him, at least.

Perfectly noble, really, except that now the whole idea reminded him of Gideon and his 'family.' Ah well.

His mouth, meanwhile, was running on autopilot, "He didn't decapitate her this time. Only the eyes are carved out, even though he had her to himself the whole night."

Hotch, Morgan and Gideon were all alongside him, Morgan kneeling down to get a better look at the body. Hotch was once again between him and Gideon, though he was reasonably sure that was accidental. After all, their team leader had more pressing things on his mind than his widdle feelings.

When no one else spoke, he decided to continue, "I'm guessing this also means we know what order he works in; first the eyes, then the head. Do you think it's possible he was interrupted?"

"It's possible. This guy is unorganized, after all," said Morgan. "It'll be impossible to tell until the autopsy report, but this may also mean he didn't have time to sexually assault her."

"Thank God for small mercies," Gideon muttered.

Reid bent down, leaning in far closer than Morgan, squinting his eyes, "Look here, at how the throat is slit. It's a single, rushed cut," he grimaced. "She wouldn't have been able to make a sound."

"So he wanted her to keep quiet," Hotch said.

"He was _definitely_ interrupted," Morgan said. "Hotch, he's got to be somewhere with other people around. An anti-social personality like this wouldn't get house-calls otherwise."

"Possibly a neighbour actually heard him and came to investigate. Which would explain why he dumped the body right after instead of finishing his ritual; he knew he was being watched," Reid said.

"Which means he's stressed, which means everyone in his area is in danger." Hotch suddenly turned, heading back towards their SUV. Reid straightened up and followed at his heels. "He was escalating quickly to begin with, and with the media advertising our investigation and now this…"

"There are thousands of crowded residences in New York, what are our chances of actually finding him before he snaps?"

Morgan was catching up, 'If Garcia can't find him, nobody can, kid. We also know he's low income, and we have YOUR geographical profile to do the rest. We missed those, trust me."

"Call Garcia and tell her what we've learned," Hotch said. "We have to catch this guy by tonight. We'll have a massacre on our hands if we don't."

Reid swallowed, feeling slightly overwhelmed. Why had he assumed his first case back would be easy?

Gideon lingered far behind the rest, silent but apparently thoughtful.

XxXxX

"His name is William Railes!"

Reid breathed a sigh of relief. She'd found him.

In that same breathless way Garcia read off his address, and then added, "Now fly my pretties, fly! Give him a much-deserved ass-kicking from me!"

Morgan was already throwing on his coat. Night had fallen outside, and the city streets were cold, "Don't have to tell me twice, Baby Girl."

"Prentiss, stay behind and stay on the line with Garcia," Hotch ordered. Out of the corner of his eye, Reid saw Prentiss already beginning to rise, then halting as she realized she wasn't permitted to come. Part of him wanted to stay behind with her, but… "Morgan, go with Rossi and the SWAT team. Reid and Gideon, you're with me."

"Be careful!" Prentiss called. Reid looked back.

She was looking at him. Only him.

_**XxXxX**_

It wasn't until they were on the way to Railes' address that Gideon spoke.

"I think we're going the wrong way."

He said it with such cool confidence that for a second Reid believed him, unconditionally.

"What are you talking about, Jason?" Hotch snapped, eyes fixed on the road.

Gideon had no smile on his face, only that strange blank fierceness that Reid hadn't seen in so long he'd nearly forgotten. Nearly forgotten that for all his flaws, he was still a brilliant profiler. "Railes is a coward. He preys on non-athletic women with no families to protect them. If he thinks he's going to be caught, he's not going to stay at his apartment. He's going to try to run."

"But where?" Reid asked.

"Well," Gideon said. "We know he has a boat."

Hotch stared at the road for a beat, then: "He's right. Reid, call Prentiss."

With slightly shaking fingers –these high-speed car rides always wigged him out—he dialled Emily's number. She picked up on the first ring, "Prentiss here."

"Emily, we think he's going to try and escape by boat, could you—." Hotch made a particularly violent turn, lurching everyone in the car. Reid cleared his throat and continued, feeling the sweat build on his brow. "—could you ask Garcia what the closest pier to Railes' address is?"

The line was silent for a moment…and then she was back. She told him the pier. He thanked her, and hung up. He repeated the name to Hotch and Gideon, but in the very back of his mind he realized how odd it was to have a professional conversation with her again.

_'Concentrate!'_ he chided himself.

"Shouldn't we let Morgan and the others go to his apartment just in case?" he asked.

"We can't risk that!" Gideon snapped.

"What Jason says matches the profile," Hotch said. It was as good as a slap to the face. "…But at the same time, if the entire SWAT unit shows up to arrest him, he could panic, and there's no guarantee that he won't take someone down with him."

"Suicide by cop," Gideon said, as if either of them needed clarification.

_**XxXxX**_

The sky was grey and weighted down with rain as they drove up to the pier. Boats of all kinds were tied up at the docks, each rocking and swaying in the slate-coloured waves. Reid knew that a storm was coming, and it must have been forecast too, because there were no people milling about. Except one, merely a large shadow in the distance. It wasn't moving normally, making its way across the long wooden platform in slow, jerky steps. At the end of the platform was a speedboat, with its cover removed.

"Guys, there he is!" he exclaimed, pointing. "And he's got a girl with him!"

"Is she still alive?"

"She's trying to get free!"

"One last victim," Gideon spat as Hotch stomped on the break. Reid was shoved forward and then yanked back by the force, briefly making his vision go white. His former mentor's voice seemed far away: "He just couldn't resist."

The older men were out of the car and running towards the unsub before Reid even had his seatbelt off. His hands felt tangled and slow—but finally he got it off, throwing open his door and stumbling out onto the pier. The wood was soft and slick under his feet, without the usual purchase of concrete. And he was uncoordinated at the best of times. Still, he ran forward, struggling to find his revolver, which he knew was somewhere at his side but he just…couldn't…

Up ahead, the unsub was just noticing them. He turned at once, pushing the girl out in front of him like a shield. She was young, and blonde, and Reid could see that her breathing was several times faster than natural. She was panicking.

He also saw the gun pushed against her temple.

"Drop your weapon!" Hotch roared, even as his own was trained on Railes. Gideon's followed suit. Reid, at last, managed to get a good grip on his own weapon and held it ahead of him, knowing full well he could never make a shot like that. The only sharpshooter among them was Hotch.

Railes seemed to know this; he placed himself almost entirely behind the girl, sacrificing eye-contact with his pursuers for safety. From what Reid could see, William Railes was a thin, short man with a receding head of brown hair. For some reason this utterly repulsed him. More importantly, with only the three of them cornering him, Railes was in the perfect position to panic.

Which, in all probability, would mean the girl would probably be killed before they could stop him.

Reid swallowed, feeling a rock-like lump in his throat. He couldn't see how this was going to end well.

"Let her go, Railes," Hotch was yelling, his voice thick with warning. "It's over."

"Shut up!" Railes' voice was high, but roughened, perhaps by many years of smoking. His words carried a distinct note of panic. "You just shut your mouth!"

Gideon's voice, in comparison, was low and calm, "This can only end one of two ways, William. Either you let the girl go, and come with us, or you kill the girl, and we kill you."

Reid glanced sharply at Gideon out of the corner of his eye; he saw Hotch doing the same. Open death threats were not advisable in any situation, but particularly not in already tense ones. Surely Gideon knew that. Two years out of the game couldn't have erased that. Rossi had been gone much longer and even he knew…so surely…

But Gideon was walking forward, advancing on Railes and the girl, the barrel of his gun aimed between her eyes. She was shaking so hard it was a wonder the unsub could hold onto her at all, but was strangely silent, staring back at Gideon with a frozen look of abject terror. Railes, behind her, could sense the agents approach and was backing up, trying to drag the girl –his only cover—back with him.

"Don't come any closer!" he wailed. "I'm warning you!"

"And I'm warning you," Gideon said. "Let her go, or die."

"Jason…" Hotch said. Gideon waved a hand at him impatiently, without looking back, and then continued.

"You'll let her go because if you don't, you get gunned down by us," he said. "You don't want to die. After all, you fear death above all else."

"Be quiet!"

"You fear death because you have a very deep belief in the human soul. It's why you carve out your victims eyes before anything else; you would like to belief these women don't have souls, because a woman has harmed you in the past. Most likely your mother." Another step forward. "But deep down you know what you've been doing is wrong, and you believe you will be punished," Gideon was now a mere two feet away from the pair, his hand as steady as his tone. "Furthermore, you're a despicable coward. You won't face your judgement unless it's the absolute last resort."

None of this was in the profile.

And yet…"It IS the last resort!" The girl started at the sudden scream, which was equal parts fear and despair. Railes remained hidden, but his words rang as clear as if he'd been speaking directly into Reid's ear. "Even if I DO go with you. They have the death penalty!"

He couldn't help but cut in, "Yes, but there hasn't been an execution in New York since 1976-" Gideon waved at him to be quiet. To his shame, he obeyed; whatever was happening here, Gideon seemed to know what he was doing.

"Let the girl go, and come with us. Plead guilty, and tell us everything we ask. At the moment, that's your best chance of survival. Do what you're thinking of doing, and you're just adding another sin onto the pile in your name."

"Just listen to him, you fucking psycho!" The girl suddenly shrieked, making Reid

jump. Apparently Railes jumped too, as the gun was suddenly jabbed into the girl's

temple, seemingly by accident. Luckily he didn't squeeze the trigger, but he was so on

edge now they might not be so lucky next time.

The sound of approaching sirens sounded in the distance. Emily must've told the rest of the team where they were…

Then, in a voice so small and pathetic it almost couldn't be heard over the rush of the waves: "Promise you won't shoot me."

"I promise," Gideon said.

There was a beat –the sirens swelled in the distant, joined briefly by the sound of a truck-horn, blaring its salute- and then the girl was running towards Hotch, tears streaming down her face. His supervisory agent caught her in his arms and gave her the precursory '_It's over, you're ok now'_ speech. Railes stood unguarded now, defeated, and Reid could think of nothing to do but watch as Gideon stepped up to him, a look of sheer menace on his usually serene features, and cuffed him. The unsub –ah, he truly was a coward—fell to his knees and wailed.

"Get up," Gideon spat.

To his left, Hotch was asking the girl for her name. Tracy Malone, she answered. Reid committed it to memory, though he wasn't sure why. It wasn't as if he'd saved her. He'd merely observed the act of saving her.

The sound of the sirens rose until the evening was consumed by them, and all the while he stood on that stage, unsure of his role.

XxXxX

_A/N: Sorry for the late update! I had an essay to finish, and it was like pulling teeth. Stupid education. Baaah._

_Action chapter! Hope you all liked it, because there will be more cases to come. Anyway, please leave a review if you've read this far; I'm open to constructive criticism._


	9. Chapter 9: Before the Storm

XxXxX

**Chapter Nine: Before the Storm**

XxXxX

Intellectually, Reid knew that he was a grown man, and had been for some time. Yet -and he wasn't sure what this said about his state of mind- he always felt vaguely ridiculous when he went out to dinner with Emily and Morgan. They usually went for burgers, and the average American burger was made for a man with Morgan-sized hands; Reid's hands were constructed for little more than turning pages and typing. Speaking of Morgan, his colleague had this habit of buying everyone a round of tall beers, and looking down at his dinner –a giant burger beside a giant frothing glass of ale— made him feel a bit like the kid who tries on his father's business shoes when no one is looking.

Morgan bringing it up every ten seconds didn't help.

"How can you live with yourself?" he asked, grinning so wide Reid thought his face might crack. "You're so goddamn adorable. It's gross, man."

"Yes…I heard you the first time."

"Can you even lift that thing?" He gestured to Reid's burger, leaning against the window. "I'm serious; you want some help with that?"

"I'll manage," he said. "Although, statistically there are about fifty burger-related deaths per year nation-wide, and fifteen percent of those deaths are related to the size of the burger in question."

The dazzling white grin started to fade, "You're joking, right?"

He smirked, taking a big gulp of the beer; it was always much pleasanter than he expected. "Of course I am. Why would I look up facts about _burgers_?"

"Let's just say it wouldn't surprise me," Morgan said. Emily laughed.

It was the first dinner the three of them had had together since Reid's suspension; it was a Friday, and work that day had been slow, all paperwork with no case to concentrate on. He wouldn't have believed that he'd be looking forward to a weekend after missing work so badly for so long, and yet there was nothing he wanted more than to relax and soak in a few classes this Saturday. No murders, no geographic profiles, just information. After a first week like this, his Professor's opening lecture would probably feel like an intellectual Epsom salts bath. But still, he was glad Emily had suggested this outing. He felt he needed to 'unwind' (or something to that effect, anyway).

Emily looked happy, but tired; he imagined he looked much the same. Her eyes, though bright, had that droopy, darkened quality that comes of being overworked without enough sleep, and he felt a certain kinship whenever he saw her stifle a yawn. He'd actually made his own eyes water trying to cover up some of his own. It was Morgan who was carrying most of the conversation this evening, but luckily their colleague didn't seem to mind. He'd been profiling longer than both of them; it was likely he understood.

Though it wasn't really like he was tired, exactly. More just…weary. Weary of the situation, of Gideon, of the look in Strauss's eye when she was told that Gideon saved the case and Reid was essentially useless. He couldn't speak for Prentiss, but he thought she might be having a lot of the same thing.

"Are you sure you wanna go out tonight?" he'd asked. "You seem kind of…out of it."

"Me? What about you? All I did was sit around at the station. I have no excuse to be tired."

"That's not true at all," he said, somewhat indignantly. "I know from experience that staying behind can be very stressful. Sometimes the printer breaks."

She'd smiled (_Yes! A joke actually worked!),_ and said. "Well then, I guess we both need a little fun then, don't we?"

The logic was irrefutable.

She'd shed her suit jacket as soon as they'd sat down at their booth, revealing a blue long-sleeve top underneath. Reid had admired it, thinking that she looked nice in a very wide spectrum of colours, when she seemed to catch him looking at her. He expected a raised eyebrow or a questioning 'ahem?' Instead, she seemed startled, looking away quickly, pretending like she hadn't seen. From then until their food was served she kept shooting him these small questioning glances, like there was a message in small print scrawled across his forehead that she was trying to read.

"Reid?"

He came back into the present moment at once, a little annoyed; he wanted to analyze those looks and determine what they meant. But Morgan was watching him, apparently with something to ask. "Uh, yes?"

"You okay?"

Uh oh. "What do you mean?"

"C'mon kid, you know what I mean. Just 'cause I gotta keep my mouth shut at work doesn't mean I don't notice," he said. "This Gideon stuff, it's got you pretty messed up."

"Is this really the time?"

Morgan raised his eyebrows, "When else do we got? Look, you can talk to us. Can't he?" He turned to Emily for support, making a wide inclusive gesture with his hands.

She hesitated, looking from Reid to Morgan and back again. "He can, of course, but if he doesn't want to…"

"Too bad for him. There's no such thing as privacy in the BAU. Trust me, I know," he said.

"Yeah, and how much do _you_ like it?"

Morgan sighed, "Fair point. Aight, I get it, I'll leave you alone," he turned to Reid again. "But don't think I don't know something's up. An' if I know, you can bet Hotch knows too. So whenever you feel like talking…"

"You'll be first to know," said Reid.

Morgan nodded, gave Emily a knowing look (What for, he wondered) and then set to work on devouring his burger. He was looking out the window when Emily caught Reid's eye.

Her expression was relaxed, and sympathetic. She didn't say anything, just folded her hands together on the table and maintained the eye contact. He shifted awkwardly, knowing what she was silently asking.

Why was she the only one he'd told. About Gideon.

In a very tiny motion he shrugged his shoulders at her, willing Morgan not to notice. If the other man did catch it he didn't let on, seemingly absorbed in watching the people moving in the streets. Maybe he was deep in his own thoughts. Morgan often was; he wondered how well he'd react if the tables had been turned and it had been Reid asking HIM to open up. It surprised him that he genuinely didn't know the answer. One of his closest friends, and he didn't know. He wondered if that was normal.

In any case, Emily understood his shrug. In response, she tilted her head, knitting her eyebrows just slightly closer together. An expression of concern passed briefly over her features.

He smiled, just slightly, and clasped his hands underneath the table. He glanced at Morgan, then back at her. She nodded minutely, her lips stretching in what few people could recognize as a smile.

To anyone else it would have been a few seconds of thoughtful silence, perhaps even an awkward silence, with uncomfortable shifting. Between profilers it was an entire conversation.

XxXxX

They finished their burgers and on their way back to the car when Morgan's cell rang. Reid and Emily froze, afraid they were being called in…but relaxed when Morgan chuckled at the caller ID, and answered –carefully concealing the screen of his phone from them, Reid noticed.

"Hey," he said, very casually. Reid also noticed that Morgan was deliberately avoiding eye-contact with his two co-workers now, something he never did with business or ordinary social calls. His shoulders were angled away from them, indicating a desire for privacy that could not be fulfilled at present. Hmm. "What, tonight? Like, now tonight?" A long pause. "Alright, why not? I was just going home anyway. See you there." Another pause, in which his pupils suddenly dilated. Very telling. "Uh, you too. Bye." Then he hung up.

"Was that your mom?" Emily asked loudly. Reid had to stifle a snicker.

"Uh, no," Morgan said. "Listen, guys, I'm actually going to meet up with someone not far from here, so you can take the car without me…"

"Well it is my car," Emily said. "You sure you don't want to be dropped off?"

"I…think I'm good," he said. "You guys are on your own. Listen, Reid, don't do anything I would do."

"That's almost guaranteed," Reid said.

With a grin that was somewhat less jaunty than usual, Morgan went in the opposite direction down the street. The two of them watched him go for awhile, standing in silence with their hands in their pockets.

"His girlfriend said she loved him. Pretty serious, huh?" Emily said.

"Seems that way," Reid said. "He didn't say it back though."

"I bet he does in private," she said. "I think he wants this to be his for awhile, you know?"

He nodded, even though he wasn't sure he did. Emily sighed.

"Anyway, we should get going. If there's one thing I hate about Washington," she added. "It's the parking."

The parking garage was at the very end of the street; not a long walk by any means, but a tedious one when you were tired and had just eaten a burger twice the size of your stomach. As they were walking, little groups of people passed them, locked into their own conversations. Reid unwillingly picked up little tidbits of what they were saying. If he'd wanted to, he could recite it all by memory; sometimes this whole genius thing was pretty useless.

The two of them didn't really talk, but he could see her giving him those small questioning glances again. He wanted to ask what the deal was, but it seemed to him that he should know; what kind of profiler was he if he didn't? Besides that, it was hard to work up the courage…sometimes it was hard to know what to say and what to keep quiet about.

One of her glances seemed to last longer than usual, so he looked at her—only to see that her gaze was actually locked somewhere behind him, and she looked annoyed. He was about to ask what was wrong, when a voice –male, brash, mid-to-late 30's—called out from the other side of the road, out of his line of vision.

"Hey hot stuff, whatchu doin' with Bambi?"

A second voice called out: "Wanna know what a _grown man_ feels like?"

Reid turned to look at the source of the commotion, startled. There were four men on the other side of the road, leaning against the wall, flannel over-shirts unbuttoned with chest hair poking out of the top of their white tees. All four were looking directly at them, laughing.

Then, suddenly, they were silent, as if a switch had been turned off. They huddled closer together and gave Reid dark looks. He was bewildered –what put them off?—but then he turned back to Emily and saw that she was adjusting her jacket. She'd shown them her FBI credentials.

"Assholes," she said.

"Do I look like Bambi?" he asked.

She glanced at him, apparently caught off guard by the question. She held the look for three seconds…five…then looked ahead of her, purposefully. "Yeah, but it's a good look for you. Don't let it get to you."

"Oh, I've been called way worse things. Insult-wise, Bambi is pretty pathetic," he said, feeling rather smug. He wanted Emily to know he had a thick skin.

"Is that so?"

"Yep," It seemed necessary to offer an example: "Once, on a case, a man called me a pipe-cleaner with eyes."

She laughed for awhile at that. Reid looked over his shoulder; the four guys were still standing in the same spot, watching after them, looking rather wilted.

"They think you're laughing at _them_," he said. "Their postures are defensive and they're not looking at each other."

"Good!" she exclaimed. "Somebody needs to laugh at them. Might dial down their egos some." She was silent for a moment. "But I doubt it." She added.

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the parking garage, up the stairs, and to her car. It wasn't until they were about to get in that Reid actually voiced what he had been thinking ever since the incident with the men.

"I find it strange that men often catcall women they are attracted to," he said, more to himself than to her. "The vast majority of women find catcalling demeaning, less like a flirtation and more like a personal violation. The statistics are overwhelming. Yet they seem to do it to prove their prowess with the opposite sex. Why would you deliberately try to hurt someone you wanted to be with?"

On the other side of the car, Emily didn't look up. She was opening her door, and Reid was about to assume she was either ignoring him or didn't hear him—when he heard her mutter:

"Well Dr. Reid, I guess you're just going to make some woman very happy some day."

XxXxX

The office was abuzz. Prentiss finished off the last of a hideous pile of paperwork –reports to be handed into the archives, and later studied by the Bureau- and shot to her feet, printing and then scooping the entire mass into her hands. It felt good to have such a workload done; it felt good to be working at all. She looked around at her team-mates; Morgan was still typing away, looking so profoundly bored it was almost painful to watch. Reid, on the other hand, was already finished. Normally he'd be setting up a 'physics magic' trick, but with Strauss watching his every move…

Well, no time to worry about that now; Hotch was expecting this work turned in.

She marched across the bullpen, shouldering past other busy agents, towards the right-most stairs. In her peripheral vision she could see JJ rushing around, agitated by something, a folder under her arm. Something must be up…

"JJ?" she asked, just as the blonde agent was about to swoosh past her.

"What? I mean, yes?" JJ, who was usually the very definition of cool, was looking a bit like she'd overdosed on caffeine recently.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, but we're going to have to go on a new case soon," she hesitated, then added lowly. "It's a bad one. Have your go bag ready."

"No prob—." But she was already off, speed-walking in the direction of Strauss's office. Now that was one job she'd never want to try—but nevermind. She had her own job to do, after all.

She was up the stairs and heading towards Hotch's office when somebody tugged on her sleeve.

"What the—." She turned on her heel; David Rossi stood in his doorway, an apologetic look on his face.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to startle."

"Didn't mean to be startled," she said, feeling rather silly. Of course it was just Rossi, who else would it have been? _'You've been doing this job for too long already.' _She thought to herself. Out loud she asked:"Did you need me for something?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Not exactly. I actually just wanted to talk to you."

"Oh," she said. "What about?"

"Why don't you come in?" He stepped aside, clearing the way into his office. "I'll even pour you a drink."

Always with the dramatics. Though she had to admit, Rossi had style.

"Alright, but only because I could really use that drink," she said.

"I figured you did," he said, and let her in.

She walked to the middle of his office and stood there, unsure whether she was supposed to sit or not. Rossi closed the door behind her –oh, he wanted to talk about something serious—and then came and sat on the edge of his desk. The scotch bottle was already opened and in place by his hip, the two glasses set up. So he'd been planning this.

Just then, something else occurred to her, "This used to be Gideon's office."

Rossi looked up at her, in the midst of pouring the second glass. "Yes it was. Not anymore."

"Didn't he want it back?"

He shrugged, "Maybe. But an older agent happened to be retiring at the time he showed up. They put him in that room."

She nodded, taking her glass when he handed it to her. Perhaps it was none of her business, but she had a feeling if anyone but Rossi had been occupying this space, it would have been given back to Gideon. Lucky Strauss seemed to have a grudging respect for the oldest member of the BAU.

"So," he said. "How's work been?"

"Great," she said, lifting the glass to her lips. "I'm glad to be back."

He waved her words off with an air of frustration, "Yes, I knew that. What I really mean to ask is, is everything alright?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You seem…" he paused meaningfully. "…distracted."

Oh.

"I'm not distracted," she said. Denial was probably the safest bet at this point. Maybe –emphasis on the _maybe_—she could throw him off the scent that way.

"Are you sure?" he asked, leaning forward. "Your work's been good, as always, but you've been distant, like something is on your mind. If anything is bothering you, the team can take care of it."

A wave of hesitant relief washed through her. It seemed Rossi's metaphorical nose was not as sharp as it used to be.

"Nothing's bothering me," she assured him. "I'm just tired. It takes a bit to get used to it again."

He laughed, "I'll drink to that."

With that they clinked their glasses together, and downed the rest of the scotch. She stood.

"Thanks for the drink, I really needed it," she said. "And the concern."

"Anytime," Rossi was gathering up the bottle and glasses, his eyes on his hands were doing. "Y'know the team would do the same. Morgan could take down anyone who pissed you off…Hotch could legally pin 'em down…"

"Garcia could find all their dirty laundry to use to our advantage," she added.

"And we can always look to Reid for some hidden insight," he said, and suddenly his dark, lined eyes contained a gleeful spark. "Which reminds me, Emily, exactly what insights do you expect to find in the young doctor's hindquarters?"

She evacuated the office in a hurry, leaving the sound of gruff laughter behind her. There were certain hazards to working with profilers, it seemed.

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: Shorter, lighter chapter this time. _

_A few reviewers were hoping Gideon's reckless behaviour would get him in trouble. If only! But Strauss is ridiculously biased. Remember when Sam Cooper deliberately disobeyed her? If Hotch had done that, she would have been all up in his grill. With Sam, she was just like "Oh, you rascal you." Strauss plays favourites, and doesn't play fair._

_Reviews make me smile, even the critical ones!_


	10. Chapter 10: The House

XxXxX

**Chapter Ten: The House**

XxXxX

It was a bad one.

The list of possible victims had a minimum of thirty; no survivors, no witnesses, just bodies left behind with clear evidence of extensive torture. No sexual assault. The dump sites showed no evidence of remorse. They were all missing all of their teeth; though Reid guessed this was an effort to conceal the identity of the victims, rather than a ritualistic collection of trophies. He was hunched over his desk at the police station, mouth hanging open, picking apart each photograph with his eyes, struggling to find a hint. The entire team was circled around the desk, each silent, with their heads bowed, as if in mourning.

"The unsub obviously has a lot of time to do all that," Morgan finally offered. "Given the extent of the torture, he probably has a lot of space and tools as well."

Reid silently concurred, noting the image of one corpse in particular. This particular victim had been a thirty-six year old black man; now his gender and age could not be determined at first glance. All the victims –and apparently they were of all the ages, genders, and ethnicities the unsub could get his hands on—were like that. The majority of them had to be identified by DNA matching.

He looked to Prentiss just in time to see her manage –he could tell it was difficult for her—to tear her eyes away from the horrific images before them. "What was their cause of death precisely?" she asked.

"Suffocation," Gideon said. "They'd all inhaled deadly amounts of smoke."

Morgan's eyebrows shot up, "Smoke? If he's doing THAT," he pointed at the photos. "—to them already, why would he go to the trouble of killing them with smoke?"

Like gears clicking into place, a new piece of the puzzle was uncovered.

"If he's using smoke, then he must be in a remote location," Reid said. Everyone turned to look at him. "Otherwise someone would have called the fire department. Creating and concealing that amount of smoke would be difficult in the first place, and it would eventually have to be released into the air outside."

"He would also need a separate, airtight space to do it," Prentiss was looking directly at him. "You don't think-."

"He's built a torture chamber," Hotch said. "Most likely underground."

Reid spoke again, trying to keep up with the ideas flooding his mind, "Notice the way he completely destroys his victim's faces, even removing their teeth. This goes beyond mere torture; it's rage."

"So he must know them," Emily said. "That's why he tries to hide who they are, so they can't be connected back to him."

"Possibly he only thinks he knows them, but the victims and the unsub will have met at some point prior to the abduction," he continued. "With this many victims, it's unlikely this is an utterly personal vendetta."

Hotch leaned forward, towards the phone that lay in the centre of the table, and hit first speed-dial then speaker phone. It rang only once.

"Hello, this is the woman of your dreams."

"Garcia, I need you to find a missing link between all the victims. There's someone all these people have met, and we need to figure out who that is."

"This guy seems to come into contact with a lot of different people, so it's possible he's someone most people would trust to let into their home. Think internet or cable workers," Reid pointed out. There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

"Um, listen Super-Team, but that was an extremely vague expo, and we're talking over thirty people here. Some of these missings haven't even turned up dead yet."

"C'mon Babygirl, you're not quitting already are you?" Morgan asked.

"Haha, not quite my handsome hunksicle. Just expect a slower loading time than usual."

"Thanks Garcia, let us know what you find." Hotch disconnected the call.

"Now what?" Rossi asked. He was the first to voice any sort of baffledness by this case; where were they even supposed to start?

"We can't do much until Garcia tells us more about the victimology," Hotch said. "So until then, we interview the people who found the bodies –Morgan and Gideon and I will do that—and everyone else can examine the dump sites. Let's go. Oh, and Reid …"

He looked up, his coat half put on, everyone else slowly making their way out of the room. "Yes?"

"Nice work."

It was two words that were enough to make his day.

"You as well, Prentiss," Hotch added.

Reid turned to smile at her, and to his surprise, found she had beaten him to it.

XxXxX

"This doesn't make any sense," he declared a day and a half later.

Emily looked up at him, blinking sleepily. They were the only two still working at the station. "What doesn't?"

He stood with his arms crossed in front of a glass map, several different coloured markers clutched in his hands. His geographic profile consisted, at the moment, of several large, colourful circles around certain areas of the city. It was at these circles he glared at, almost trying to will them into being coherent. They seemed as if they were the result of a miscalculation; Reid was no narcissist, but he never miscalculated. Ever.

"They're in the wrong spots," he muttered. "They have to be."

Emily, he noticed, was now giving him her full attention, "What do you mean? What's wrong?"

"Look," he pointed. "Using the locations of the dumpsites and the locations of the abductions, I've determined that our unsub must be living somewhere in this vicinity," he traced the largest circle with his finger. "Or, failing that –and given how little we know of him, that may well be the case—one of these nearby areas." He traced the two smaller circles, both of which overlapped with the largest one. "The trouble is…"

"It doesn't fit with what we DO know about him," she finished for him. "Most of that is suburbs."

"And we profiled that he needs seclusion. Exactly."

"Well, wait a minute," She was standing up, and pointing to the northern-most circled area. "Isn't this forested?"

"Partially, but the lots are only marginally larger than in a higher class suburb; the homes are still too close together. The so-called forest is mostly just aesthetic and curb appeal."

"But it still provides a degree of privacy. With trees surrounding your property, neighbours can't see into your windows, your lot is much more shadowed, they could even absorb some sound. Reid, this area may be the closest thing we're going to find to our profile in this city."

She was right, of course. But IT wasn't right, not entirely anyway. He stared at the map, trying to form a picture of the unsub in his mind. He was organized; he required seclusion to do his torture, but he only tortured people he had a connection with (or thought he had a connection with). His obsession with not getting caught even extended to removing their teeth, as a precaution against dental record checks. Surely someone that paranoid wouldn't be satisfied with partial tree cover?

He turned quick enough to startle Emily and hit the speed-dial and speaker phone. "What's up?" she asked.

"Hold on, I think I have a thought."

There was a click, "Welcome to my inner sanctum. What is your desire?"

"Garcia, I need to check out the history of this one street…." He gave her the location, and then continued. "We think the unsub's hideout might be in that area. Has anyone drastically changed their lot, say by purchasing and planting extra trees? Try in the last year or so."

There was a short pause, "Negative. Sorry Small Fry, no one felt like redecorating."

"Maybe farther back?"

Another brief pause, "Not even twenty years, kiddo."

His heart fell, "This is really weird."

Garcia continued, "I gather that you're trying to see if anyone is concealing their property. I just looked at it top-down via satellite, and I gotta tell ya, everyone likes to show off their shmancy homes there. Most of the trees are in the back."

Emily groaned, "Well, that was a bust."

"Ah! Perhaps not," Garcia said. Reid and Emily looked up at once, eyes fixed on the phone. "It's not on that street, but on the other side of the city there is another semi-forested area. Most of the houses are like the ones on yours, save for one. The owner actually built a stone fence on the edge of his property, then threw in an extra layer of tree-cover for good measure. He even owned a very large, very badly behaved dog."

"There's a paranoid personality if I ever heard of one," Emily muttered.

"The satellite pic looks like he wanted to live in a box."

"Where is this place, Garcia?" She read him the address, and he turned around to find it. He frowned. "This is nowhere near my geographic profile."

"Yes, well, there is a catch, I'm afraid," Garcia said. "Those extra trees were planted twelve years ago. The building has been abandoned for ten."

"Who spends that much money on a piece of property and then leaves it?"

"Someone who wanted to escape," Reid said.

"It gets weirder. The owners name was Jonathon Hughes; he was a professor at a local University. He lived alone and taught for 13 years, until suddenly quitting his job and then dropping off the face of the planet. No purchases with his cards, no instances of his name popping up anywhere in the last ten years."

The room fell silent. Reid and Emily were staring at each other over the phone. He saw how closely she was watching him, and wondered what she was thinking.

"Do you think he's our guy?" she asked.

"He could be," he said. "But this can't be his current lair; his victim's are too high risk to warrant driving all the way across the city for them. Maybe if they were prostitutes, but these are educ-."

He stopped.

"Educated people," Emily finished for him. "Do you think it's possible this could be a previous location?"

"If it is then there could be even more victims. He could have been active for the last ten years."

Emily stood up, "Thanks Garcia."

"Give the lamp a rub at any time, my friends."

Garcia hung up.

"Reid, Hotch needs to know about this."

He agreed. They called Hotch, and told him everything they had discovered over the speaker phone. Their leader listened with very little comment; Reid could almost see his stony expression, the hard set of his shoulders. He also knew Gideon and Morgan were probably standing nearby, listening in.

When they finished, Hotch said; "But it's outside of Reid's profile?"

"Yes, sir."

"I see," he sighed. "So there are two possible outcomes; either Reid's profile is wrong –and I'm not saying it is, I've never known his geography to be wrong yet—and we waste our time looking into this, or we find a previous base of operations, and almost certainly more victims."

"Either way it's bad news."

"Exactly." He stopped to think. Then: "I want the two of you to go check it out. Call us, let us know what you find. If this Hughes is our guy then we need as much information as possible."

"Yes, thank you sir," Emily said, and hung up. She looked to Reid. "Do you know what this means?"

"We're going to an old, dark, abandoned building –alone- in the middle of the night?" he said. He would never admit it out loud, but the thought actually made his heart speed up. Just a little bit.

"Well, yeah, that," she said, throwing on her jacket. "But it also means I'm finally getting out of the station. Gimme five!"

She raised her hand, and, after he got over the mild shock of such a request, he gave her a very weak, very tentative five. It was to the sound of her laughter that they exited the office.

XxXxX

"Is this it?" he asked, though Prentiss knew he must already know the answer. They'd driven down a long, mostly empty road, and they'd noticed that as they went on the houses started to get farther apart. Trees began to loom on either side of them, like watchful sentinels guarding each home. At the beginning of the street the buildings were large, with wide windows, and brightly lit; now they were becoming mere shacks, hidden in the back shadows of their over-sized lots. And the trees kept getting thicker.

Finally they stopped before what they knew to be the address, though they hardly needed it. It was recognizable from Garcia's description alone. A shoulder-high, mud-coloured stone wall blocked the view from the street, and trees pressed up against it from either side in clusters. The darkness within the property looked almost like a solid mass, as if you could press your hand against it and feel something yielding and cold. In the quiet, Prentiss heard Reid swallow.

"You okay?"

"Yep," he said, though his voice was curiously high-pitched.

"I guess this is why nobody ever checked to see why it's abandoned. If there was ever a house I'd want to steer clear of…"

"That much is clear," Reid said. "I noticed that the next door neighbour has placed everything on her property away from the wall. There's a seven-foot-wide line between the two lots. People can sense something is wrong."

She looked at him, impressed. Was there anything his eyes missed?

(_You better hope so_, said a cheeky little voice in her head).

"Anything else you can see?"

He squinted around, the bags under his eyes very visible in the strange lighting. "That wall was not done professionally. He built it himself. He probably didn't trust anyone else that close to his house."

"'His inner sanctum,' as Garcia would put it." Prentiss turned off the engine; the headlights puttered out and they sat in the dark for a moment. "Does your cell still work?"

"Huh?"

"Cell reception. Do you have it?"

"Uhh…" he reached in his pocket for his phone, and peered at the screen. "Yeah, but barely."

"That'll have to do, I guess," she picked up her flashlight off the car floor, switched it on, and opened her door. "Let's go, then."

They were both wearing bullet-proof vests, and as they neared the main gate Prentiss put one hand on her gun, which was still holstered to her hip. She didn't think they'd have any reason to shoot, or had any real chance of being shot, but you never know what you might find in an abandoned building. Reid was in step beside her, pointing his flashlight around at all the different shadows, while hers was straight and steady.

_'Must be afraid of the dark,_' she thought. Somehow she was not surprised.

The gate was, appropriately enough, large and metal, and rusty enough that the entire structure was a brownish orange. Nicks on the bars showed that at one point metal had scraped against metal, which probably indicated that the lock had been stolen, because there was none. Which meant in turn that the unsub definitely was not still here; he would never have allowed himself to live on a property without a lock.

She stopped a foot away from the gate, pointing her light directly into that relentless blackness. Reaching out with the hand that had been resting on her weapon, she pushed it open. It made a sound that could only be mistaken for a shriek at eleven o'clock at night, but still managed to make her shudder. It only opened a few feet, but it was enough to go through; besides, she was too creeped out to bear trying to open it any further.

She motioned at Reid to follow her, and stepped into what was once Hughes' front yard.

The lawn was non-existent, that much she could tell with a quick sweep of her light. The grass had long since browned and died, replaced by layers and layers of dead leaves. The smell was damp, as in an old forest, the kind with creatures lurking under the cave-like roots. Her light cut forward in the darkness, forming a narrow tunnel of visibility. She looked at the building; it had not been tended to in many years. Yet the windows were still intact, as was the door. So no squatters, unless of course they got in from the back…

"Let's circle around," she whispered. Why was she whispering? "We don't want any surprises."

Slowly, they circled the house, the flashlights trained on the walls, searching for a missing plate of glass, listening for the sound of a loose door in the breeze. There was none. Despite the decay, the house was secure as if someone-

As if someone were still inside.

"Cover me," she said. She sensed Reid's nod.

They were facing the back entrance now. She raised her gun and her light in one smooth motion, both aimed at the door, and walked towards it. When she came to it, she paused to check her balance, and then kicked it in, stepping into the house in the same motion, whirling the light around.

"Clear!"

Reid fell into step beside her, and together they surveyed what had at one point been a kitchen.

Mouse shit littered the counters, piled on top of old newspaper clippings, the majority of which were shredded (probably by those same guilty mice). As if to confirm that, yes, this home was abandoned in every sense of the word, there were actually unwashed dishes still sitting in the sink. She leaned in for a closer look; a spider's web had been built between a soup ladle and a frying pan, and the spider itself sat on its lip, fat and black and ugly. Half-eaten fly corpses hung in the balance. Trying to swallow down her disgust, she turned the tunnel onto the news clippings. There must have been a dozen.

"Reid?" she said.

There was a faint clicking sound somewhere behind her and to her right. "The light switch doesn't work."

"Come here a second," He came, and she pointed at the clippings. "I hate to ask, but could you…?"

"They're all about disappearances," he said before she could even finish her request. "High-risk, no apparent preferences, if they're all by the same person."

"Any of them about recovered bodies?"

"None. Just disappearances."

"Great," she said with a sigh. "We'll have to get these names to Garcia."

When Reid didn't answer, she looked over at him; he was watching her, lips slightly parted, eyebrows furrowed.

"You think there might actually be _this_ many more victims?"

"Let's just hope not for now," she said. "Let's see what else we can find…"

There were two exits from the kitchen besides the back door. The first led to the living room, and the front door. They cleared it, scanned it, and found nothing of real interest. The second was a long hallway, which presumably led to the rest of the house. The wallpaper was curling up the walls, and that mildew smell became stronger. Strangely narrow design too, she thought, as she stepped into the hall. Perhaps the unsub also had agoraphobic tendencies…?

The floorboards squealed under her feet as they advanced forward. She paused for a moment, and shifted her weight –the wood seemed to strain.

"The dampness hasn't done any good in here," she said.

"There's a bedroom up ahead."

"How can you tell?"

"I can see the bed." She looked where Reid's jittering light was pointed, into an open doorway about six steps ahead; because of her angle to the door, she couldn't see anything but the dust motes floating in the light. Motioning for Reid to follow, she took the six steps –if anyone WERE in this building, they'd have no way to take them by surprise; the floor was too goddamn noisy—and turned the corner, gun first.

"Must've been a guest room," she muttered. The bed was made, with white sheets and without wrinkles, as if it had never been touched. The room was otherwise empty.

The closet door, however, was ajar. A room, unused, with an ajar door?

They were halfway to the suspicious door when there was a loud crack. Prentiss stopped, startled, and it was just a second too long. In that second the ground seemed to disappear out from under her. Broken shards of wood flew first towards her…and then were flying above her in a whirlwind, and it took her another second to realize that it was not them who were flying but her who was falling. Reid, so close to her side, fell with her.

Then all at once there was a ground again –against the back of her head, specifically- and it all went black.

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: Reviews make my day, so if you have any comments or criticisms, I'd love to hear from you!_


	11. Chapter 11: The Room

**XxXxX**

**Chapter Eleven: The Room**

**XxXxX**

The first thing she was aware of was a dull, pounding feeling. She was normally ambivalent towards the back of her head, but at this particular moment she hated nothing more: it felt bloated with pain, as if her skull had to grown just to accommodate the sheer amount of it. The second thing she was aware of was the very cold, very hard surface her ass and legs were resting on. Concrete, no doubt, the usual unfinished basement fare. The world was coming back where it left off, with each passing second becoming more and more unpleasant. Why couldn't she have just woken up in a Hospital again?

It was a few moments before she noticed the pair of arms around her.

Her eyes shot open. Somebody's flashlight was still on, set on its end by her feet, staring with its single eye up at the hole they'd just fallen through (at least…she assumed they'd just fallen through it. How long could she have been out?). It threw a very thin blanket of visibility on the room, giving everything shape but no colour; it felt like a living noir movie. It also made Reid appear kind of ghoulish, but she found she didn't mind too much. She looked back up at him (because he, of course, was looking down at her), trying to blink away the darkness, like it was smoke that could be brushed aside by lashes alone.

_This doesn't make any sense,_ she thought. _Reid hates to be touched. Can't stand it. So there's no way he could be holding me right now. That's just insane._

Except that bruise on her skull felt pretty damned real. Not a dream, then…

"Hey," Reid said, after a moments quiet. She wondered at that: what could he be thinking that would keep him silent?

Oh, right. The case. That was sort of more important, wasn't it?

"How long was I out?" she asked, trying but failing to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

"Four minutes and twenty three seconds," he said. "I tried to call for help, but there's no cell phone reception down here."

"Did _you_ get hurt?"

"Depending on your definition of hurt; nothing seems to be broken, and I wasn't knocked out, but on the other hand…" he hesitated. "Ow."

"What ows?"

"My knees. Just bruises though, so don't worry about it," he said. "You on the other hand…"

She tried to sit up, hating leaving his embrace, but knowing that she couldn't afford to look weak on the job. "I'm fine, really. We have to go-."

To her surprise, he held her in place. His wasn't a particularly strong grip. If she wanted to, she could break out of it effortlessly and be on her feet again. Instead, she relaxed. It couldn't hurt to stay just a bit longer.

"You hit your head," he said, his voice rising an octave. "I'm sorry, I should have seen that the floor wasn't safe to walk on—."

"How? There wasn't any light."

"But I-." He stopped. "Never mind, let's just…let's just make sure you're okay, okay?"

"I told you I'm fine!"

"I just want to make sure you don't have a concussion." He leaned and grabbed his flashlight, and weighed it in his hands. "This isn't really the ideal light to use, but it's all I've got."

"Wait a minute," she said as he slowly lifted her into a more upright position. "You're not an M.D. I mean, aren't you the wrong kind of doctor for this sort of thing?"

"Um, technically, but I've done some reading on the subject. Nothing I'd like to study formally," he sounded offhand. "Besides, I know how to do this from watching paramedics with victims. Look at me."

She did. He stared back, only a few inches away, glancing from one eye to the other. _The way he looks at pictures_, she thought. Her heart started to speed up, though she willed it not to. Even the pain, bad as it was, seemed muffled by that stare.

He lifted the light and pointed it indirectly into her left eye. She squinted reflexively.

"Try to keep them open," he said.

She did, even though they watered. After a few moments he moved onto the right eye, and then the light was put back down.

"You're fine," he said. She noticed he did not lean back.

"Told you so."

"To be honest, I believed you," he said with a small shrug. "But I'm not taking any chances."

Unwillingly –so unwillingly—she sat up out of his lap. His arms fell away, but he didn't move to stand until she did. She offered her hand to help him up, and he took it, and then they stood like that, as if meeting for the first time with a handshake.

"Thanks," she said.

They released each other.

For the first time (waking up in Reid's arms, it turned out, was a very attention-consuming phenomenon) she could actually look around at the room they'd found themselves in. She went cold; the walls were lined with…well, it was hard to tell in the dim light, but she saw chains and many sharp objects.

"Where's my light?" she asked.

"It smashed."

"Alright," At least they still had the one. "Did you check any of that stuff out while I was unconscious?"

She looked around at him when he didn't answer; he was giving her a look of quiet disbelief.

"What?"

"Well, no I didn't," he said, as if it was obvious. "I was more worried about you."

"Oh." Duh. "Well it looks like they might be torture devices, so if you could bring that light over-."

She was right. An entire wall was covered in as many different combinations of chains and spikes and leather as anyone could think of (if they were seriously mentally ill). Even worse, they were in obviously excellent condition. The metal tools even appeared to have been shined.

"Someone takes pride in their work," she muttered. "Sick bastard."

"I guess this makes Jonathon Hughes our unsub," Reid said.

"Unless this city is really, really unlucky, I'd say you're right." She turned and pointed in the opposite direction of the wall; Reid took her cue and shined the light there.

The basement seemed to be a long rectangle—no, not quite a rectangle, because as it went on it got continually narrower, giving everything a distorted sort of funhouse look. There was also an odd structure at the far end, what looked like a small room added onto the wall, but not as wide as the space around it. It stood out like a 3D effect. Aside from that room, there did not appear to be a way out.

She turned again; on this wall leaned a small table, and on top of it a small television set. Her gun, which she must have dropped during the fall, was slid under the table, and she walked up and crouched to grab it. While she was there, she examined the table, pulling out both the empty drawers. No videotapes in sight, so unless he hid them elsewhere or took them with him, he didn't seem to document what he did to his victims (not surprising; considering the sheer amount of them, he probably had very little cool down time to admire any home videos). More likely this was once a facet of a now defunct security system. She turned it on; black and white fuzz appeared on the screen, accompanied by a faint buzzing noise.

There was still electricity here? But the lights hadn't worked upstairs…

Turning the set back off, she turned her back on it and returned to Reid. She didn't need to mention the electricity; she knew he was already trying to puzzle it out in his head.

"I don't see any bloodstains anywhere," she said, taking the flashlight when he handed it to her. "So this is just a storage area, not the actual site of the mutilation."

"Unless he just kept it meticulously clean, like his tools. There's chains over there," Reid said, pointing at the wall opposite the TV set, further down the long room. "-that are set in the wall about shoulder-level, if you were sitting. So this IS where he kept his victims at least. Actually, it's a fairly simple lair. I've seen some pretty technologically complex ones before, but this is basically just a big slab of a room. It seems…"

"Out-of-character?"

He frowned, casting hid gaze around. "Hughes is a professor, who attacks other educated people. I guess I was just expecting something more organized."

"There's still that room," she nodded her head at the bizarre addition. "I'd be willing to bet we'd find some bloodstains in there."

But before they got there, something else caught her attention. On either side of the addition, in the nooks, the walls were lined with picture frames. Each picture contained a symbol drawn in black ink, like calligraphy; despite her vast linguistic range, she didn't recognize them.

"Look at this," she said, and walked into one of the nooks. Each symbol was different, and each apparently gibberish. She brought the light close to the glass and saw that they, too, were kept spotlessly clean.

"Reid, do you know what these are?" she asked.

"The door isn't locked!" His voice was farther away than she expected. Startled, she whipped around; he wasn't there behind her. She'd assumed he was walking right at her side the whole time.

Then she heard a click, and the moan of a door opening. A _heavy_ door.

He was going into the torture area.

She wasn't sure _how_ she knew something was wrong, only that she _knew_. Then she was running.

XxXxX

Reid, on the other hand, didn't notice anything wrong until he was actually inside. It wasn't 'til he was within the torture chamber's walls that he noticed the small slots on the bottom of the walls. He stepped forward to get a closer look…and felt the floor go down under his weight. There was a loud mechanical crack, and at first he assumed he'd somehow fallen through the floor again. But then he noticed that only a single tile of the floor –a floor covered in tiles—had sank. A pressure plate.

When he'd stepped on that pressure plate –no doubt there were more hidden throughout the room—a clock in the left hand corner of the wall zapped to life, its red glowing numbers showing 5:00. Then there was the mechanical click….

And then Emily was yelling at him to get out of there, and he could hear her boots hitting the ground. He spun around only in time to see her through a crack—

"Emily!"

-Before the door closed. A second loud crack signalled the lock.

"REID!" she hollered, and there was the sound of fists and feet against metal.

He whipped back around to face the clock, fearing the worst. Sure enough, its face read 4:58.

Whatever this was, there was a time limit. He felt the sweat build on his brow.

Emily was still trying to knock down the door—with full-on body checks, by the sounds of it, and still hollering all the time. "Reid! Spencer, are you okay?"

"I'm okay!" he called. "But maybe not for long…I think I've screwed up."

The incessant clanging stopped. "What do you see? What's going on?"

"There's a five minute time limit."

"A time limit to WHAT?"

"A…a puzzle?" He looked around, searching desperately for some clue. Aside from him, there was nothing in the room; all that decorated the walls was what appeared to be a small control panel, and several small vents in the ceiling. Why would he need air vents if he already had the slots?

"A puzzle?" She paused, making his heart jump. No time for pauses! "Hold on, I think I've got something!"

He heard her running, and in moments something was being pushed through one of the slots, like mail, fitting perfectly through. He ran and grabbed it; it was a picture frame, housing a strange symbol.

"What language is this? I've never seen it," he said.

"I was hoping you would know," she said. "But I would bet these are part of whatever puzzle this is."

He looked up at the clock. 4: 29.

"Wait a minute," he said, looking around slowly. "This is familiar."

"What?"

He was murmuring to himself, "Slots in the walls…symbols…but no references?"

4:15. "Spencer, _what is it?"_

Then it came to him in a flash, as if the article itself had been shoved under his nose. "JOHN SEARLE!" He ran to the wall Emily's voice was coming from. "Pass me more of the symbols; I need them to get out of here!"

Immediately there was the clash and clack of the frames being ripped and gathered off the walls and into her arms. He saw her shadow appear in one of the slots –and then the symbols were shoved through, skidding across the floor. He ran to line them up, to try and achieve some sort of order before he ran out of time –he looked at the clock and it already read 3:57…

"You have to talk to me Spencer, what's going on in there?"

Her voice was low and authoritative; he'd have preferred to think in silence, but it was hard to disobey a voice like that. "UM. Um. I think it's the Chinese Room—"

"What the hell is the chinese room?"

"Famous theory by John Searle. He argued that any human could appear to speak fluent Chinese if they were taught a specific pattern, even if they didn't speak Chinese at all. Just like a computer, thus computers can't be said to think at all-"

_"What?"_

3:19. "I'll explain later! Just keep the symbols coming…"

He jumped to the control panel; it consisted only of a small, chunky keyboard and a rounded, out-of date screen. A small green light in the corner told him it was on; the customized letters on the keyboard confirmed his suspicions. He was going to have to translate the symbols (which, as far as he could tell, were the entirely made-up symbols of an entirely made-up language) into a password. Within the next three minutes. Or…

He looked up at the vents.

-_the victims all died of smoke inhalation—_

What was the likelihood that a smoke machine would still work after all these years?

Probably about as likely as whatever-this-thing-was to still be working.

And it was most definitely working.

The image of the fuzzy, buzzing television screen came back to him, seeming to float before his eyes. Hughes must have had a separate, private generator set up specifically for this room. Didn't want a large electrical bill to attract attention. Or maybe it was simply designed so that anyone who was able to get down here –even anyone who appeared long after he'd left— wouldn't be able to get out again. Which would explain why this machine was left on, but then Hughes probably wasn't counting on FBI agents falling through his floor—

He shook his head. Not the time for speculation.

The frames were piling up under the slots, each new one falling with a clatter to the concrete. 3:05. He willed Emily to move faster; in Searle's theory the participant was meant to have reference texts to be able to learn the pattern, but there were none here. He would need all the symbols to even begin cracking this code. Abandoning the console, he went about lining the frames up, keeping the ones like in appearance together. Like symbols in languages always had a connection—

At 2:57 the last frame fell through, and Emily called out: "That's the last of them—I counted and there are twenty-six of them, like our alphabet. Does that help?"

"Immensely!" he called back. The sweat was running down his face in ribbons now. Twenty-six symbols; his eyes darted across all the like pairs and –yes! The exact same number as the English alphabet, again. It WAS English. Not a made-up language, just made-up letters. The puzzle was now just that much easier.

Except he still needed the password, and saw no way of figuring it out. He'd worry about that later. Not like he really had a choice.

2:01. "Spencer?"

Emily had been largely quiet; Reid was grateful for the silence (he really worked so much better without interruption), but as the clock ticked down the seconds his self-preservation instincts were skyrocketing, urging him to throw himself at the walls, to holler and dig and anything that might help; these things he could easily ignore, and always had, but less simple were the Other Thoughts. If he failed to solve this, and he died, what would happen to Emily? There was no way out of the basement that they'd found, and the smoke –and who knew how much smoke there would be—was sure to leak through the slots to where she was. Against his will his mind conjured a painfully clear picture of her, alone and cornered down here, and the team not knowing where she was. The thought caused actual physical pain; more so than the fear for his own safety. He struggled to ignore it.

"I'm almost done this," he said. It was true, even if the majority of his translation was guesswork. But he'd noticed now that some of the frames had small numbers on the right hand corner, like on the letter he'd decided was W. Perhaps they created a message, if put in order. Perhaps the password? He focused now on trying to line them up from A to Z; if he could just do that, this could be over in a matter of seconds…

Though he seemed to be running out of seconds…

"Spencer!"

1:12. No time to think about it any more.

_'I better have got this right,_' he thought. Any other person would have started lining up the numbered frames by hand. But Reid's mind was much faster than the human hand.

He fell to his knees in front of the line he'd created, memorizing them all with one sweep of his eyes. If he'd gotten even one symbol wrong it could all be over now, and it was too late to go back and change…

He fell into a semi-trance, taking on that eerie stillness, eyes narrowed, mouth open. The world as it was ceased to exist, taking the concrete and the ticking clock with it; there was only the darker, yet somehow clearer and more colourful world of his minds eye. He wanted to see the message.

On the command of that desire alone, all nine of the numbered frames slid out of line (they were illuminated by his focus while the others seemed to fade to black), and then began to shuffle, to quickly for him to follow. 1 joined up to 2 and so on, until finally they came together, a new line. The nonsense symbols Hughes had created vanished, and were replaced by glowing letters. The frames stood upright on their own, floating in the air, to display their message (and yes, thank God, it made sense):

_WHO MADE IT_

A question? Then the answer must be the password.

He broke out of the trance; at first he heard the floating frames crash to the ground and shatter, but there were no floating frames. The sound faded as the real world seeped back into his head. The next second he was on his feet, rushing towards the console; without even glancing down he stepped over the line of frames, which of course had never moved.

59 seconds. Who made it?

\ _(He could hear Emily pacing just outside the room; he knew from the pace of her footfalls that she was distressed)._

Every letter in the question was different, with no actual question mark. A better question would have been 'who made this' or 'who invented this machine' _(he assumed it was about the machine oh please oh please let him be right) _but that would have meant using doubles of letters he just didn't have. No punctuation either. But he got the gist; who made it?

He pressed enter on the console keyboard. It took a few seconds to load the screen. Exactly ten seconds. Was it programmed to do that or was it just old technology?

At 47 seconds he typed in JOHN SEARLE.

It took another ten seconds to load.

And then nothing happened.

`What?"

"What is it?" Emily shrieked. Emily was shrieking? "What's wrong?"

34 seconds. "Nothing! I got this."

Except he didn't. This machine was too slow to test out much…

32 seconds. He typed just SEARLE. At 22 seconds nothing happened.

"Emily…"

Her voice was firm, "Hughes is a narcissist! What would he put—"

He typed HUGHES, and had to wipe sweat out of his eyes while he waited, counting each second like they were droplets of water and he was lost in a desert. 4, 3, 2…

Nothing happened. 11 seconds.

His fingers flew across the keys, rushing to preserve that precious extra second. JONATHON HUGHES.

10

9

8

_(Emily was trying to break in the door)_

7

6

5

4

3

_(Would the team know she was here?)_

2

There was a crack. The timer stopped.

All at once he could hear his heartbeat, which was hard enough to make his shirt jump, his damp, sweat-drenched shirt. He was aware he was gripping the console, fingernails dug into the sides, his back bent like a question mark over the screen. Huh. That must have been involuntary.

Behind him he heard Emily stumble and—and the sounds of moving metal. The door was opening. He tried to turn and face her, but he couldn't seem to will himself to move. In the next second it didn't matter anyway, because she hit his back with such force that he straightened up automatically; he knew it was because he was kind of punch-drunk at the moment, but he kind of felt engulfed by her.

Then she was spinning him around –he got a brief look at her face—before she was hugging him harder than he could ever remember being hugged before. It took him a second to notice he was hugging back.

They stood like that for awhile. He didn't know how long. The timer was off.

After a long silence, he asked into her hair (he knew his voice would be muffled but moving seemed like a horrible idea), "How'd you know he was a narcissist?"

"Huh?" She sounded dazed.

"You said to me, Hughes is a narcissist." Good thing too. The idea had saved his life, probably. "That wasn't in the profile."

"Oh. Isn't it obvious?" she said. He noticed she didn't move when she spoke either. "Who else but a narcissistic professor would kill his victims with a philosophical theory? That's why they're all educated—he's threatened by them. He was trying to prove his intellectual superiority." He felt her smile against his neck. "But you're smarter."

"Ha," he breathed. Then there was no more talking for awhile.

Eventually they moved away from that spot, and eventually they did find the exit –it was a secret-passage type deal, hidden in one of the walls of the nooks. It led to a narrow plywood, concrete and insulator tunnel, which they walked down in silence. Reid was being pulled along by Emily; they hadn't stopped holding hands since they broke the hug. He found he didn't really want to let go anyway.

The tunnel –which curved around in a perfect circle, from what he could tell in the darkness—eventually led to a seeming dead end, if not for the trap door overhead. Emily forced it open –and they found themselves poking their heads out of the guest room closet, mere feet away from where they'd fallen through the floor. He guessed that explained why the door was open.

Carefully, they climbed back onto the main floor. They agreed that, with what they'd seen, it was best if they left and called crime scene investigators to check out the rest of the house. Stepping lightly, and keeping close to the walls (he had to resist the urge to look into the hole, which was totally black), they ventured out of the guest room and back into the hall, and into the kitchen. They stopped to consider the newspaper clippings –should they leave these for CSI as well?—and eventually decided to take them along, scooping them all into one plastic baggy. Garcia could probably do more good with these names.

When they were outside, Emily opened her phone. There was a signal –weak, but it was there.

"No missed calls," she said. "Huh."

He nodded. Huh.

Then she was waiting for Hotch to pick up. Reid was so close that, when their boss answered, he could hear his tight voice just as clearly as Emily. Which wasn't very; the bad reception made Hotch sound as if he were speaking through a blender.

"Emily? Did you find anything out?"

She looked Reid, then away again, as if she hadn't meant to do it. He felt her hand tighten around his.

"Yeah, you could say that."

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: So sorry for being a day late! I had company yesterday, and by the time I remembered I had to update, it was way too late at night. Eek! _

_Anyway, believe it or not this is a major turning point in the story. I don't think it's much of a spoiler to note that when Emily says she's 'found something out' to Hotch, she is NOT just talking about the unsub. I'm looking forward to Chapter Twelve, kukuku._

_Reviews are so appreciated! _


	12. Chapter 12: After

XxXxX

**Chapter Twelve: After**

XxXxX

He didn't know what, but he'd done something wrong. It was the only way to explain it.

After the incident in Hughes' basement, the case progressed smoothly; he was caught the very next morning, squirming and gnashing his teeth while Morgan cuffed him. The revelation that he was a narcissist was like finding the missing gear of a broken machine. Reid gave Emily all the credit, as she deserved; all he did was walk into peril yet again.

Hotch acknowledged her accomplishment, and Reid had turned to smile at her, as she had him only a few days before –to find she was already walking away down the hall. He watched her retreating back and tried not to feel hurt, tried to tell himself that catching Hughes was more important. That behaving like a professional was more important, unless he wanted to lose his job to Gideon.

But then the case was wrapped, and still something was off. She didn't want to play cards on the jet, instead burying her nose in a paperback she bought at the airport. It wasn't even the type of book she liked, if he knew anything about her at all. Furthermore (and he hated himself for checking but he had to) he watched her carefully out of the corner of his eyes and noticed that the pace at which she turned the pages was highly irregular, not only slower than her usual pace but as if she had to stop and re-read sections, like she wasn't really taking in the words. So _something_ was on her mind.

Not necessarily him, of course. It could be anything. It would be self-absorbed to assume she was thinking about him.

Except he kind of had the feeling she was.

"Any good?" he asked, making sure not to look at her, seeming to address the whole jet.

"Yeah," she said without a beat. Then silence.

That confirmed it then. He could have been talking to anyone –Morgan and his music, JJ and her fun-sized bag of chips—but Emily answered right away. Which was a good indicator that she was at least partially focusing on him; the brevity of her answer might show irritation or ambivalence. His heart sank. What had he done wrong?

_Shouldn't have held her hand,_ he told himself. _Now she thinks you need comforting on the job. Like a big weak baby._

Except it was HER who had hugged HIM –so wasn't that kind of hypocritical of her?

He refused to believe she was a hypocrite. But what else COULD it be?

So it was for the rest of the flight, the two of them side-by-side in (companionable or cold?) silence. He chased possible explanations in circles through his mind, not liking them when he caught them, feeling lost without one. The jet landed and Hotch told them all to head home straight-away, the paperwork could wait.

But he wanted to stay here, with Emily. He couldn't figure out what the problem was at his apartment.

But not for lack of trying, it turned out. There was very little sleep for him that night, and it was with even more circles under his eyes than usual that he returned to work the following morning.

Emily was already at her desk, one hand on her keyboard and the other wrapped around a steaming mug. Maybe it was his imagination, but did she look like she'd under slept, as well?

He dropped his bag and collapsed into his chair, already dreading the day's work, which was kind of unusual for him. He liked to be busy, and he also liked paperwork. Today should be like a vacation to him. But today the mass on his desk just seemed like an obstacle between him and Emily.

"Good morning," he said.

"Morning," she said, flashing him a brief smile. That made him feel a bit better, even if she did turn right back to her screen.

Morgan sauntered in a few minutes later, giving them both a jaunty smile and a 'hey.' Reid watched Emily out of the corner of his eye, and saw that she gave Morgan that same short grin. No colder or warmer than she did him.

So maybe he was just being paranoid after all.

With a sigh his fingers found his keyboard, and he resigned himself to his report.

"Agent Prentiss, a word please."

Strauss's voice startled him out of the trance he'd fallen into; their superior stood across from Emily, a few papers in hand and a sour expression on her face. He looked away again quickly –he didn't want to seem nosy, but…

"You may as well pay attention Agent Reid, this pertains to you as well."

His stomach sank. He turned in his chair towards the two women –Emily was looking between him and Strauss, wide-eyed and tight-lipped. Strauss seemed to be trying to laser him with her gaze, before turning back to Emily.

"I've just read your report of yesterday's case," she said.

Reid waited for her to elaborate, but she seemed to want one of them to respond. No doubt she was hoping they'd say something stupid; Strauss always made sure the ball was in her court.

"Was there something wrong with it?" Emily finally ventured.

"Nothing…wrong, per say. Just unusual. Even for your…" she seemed to weigh her words. "…_eccentric_ team."

Reid and Emily glanced at each other.

"Did you have any problems with my report?" he asked.

"I'll get to you," she said. "Now, Agent Prentiss, I'm curious. You have, up 'til now, been largely out of the field on all recent cases. It wasn't until you were called upon by SSA Hotchner to investigate this abandoned house that you actually ventured out of the station. And you took Agent Reid. It occurs to me that it was being alone with Agent Reid that landed you in the Hospital in the first place. I am curious why you would be so trusting of him a second time."

This had to be a dream or something, because there was no way Strauss –even Strauss—could be saying something so humiliating, right in front of his team-mates (he knew Morgan would be listening, no matter how well he could play dumb). Right in front of _Emily._ He wanted to slide under his table and never ever come out.

"Agent Reid and I were _both_ ordered to investigate the house," Emily said. "I'm not about to disobey orders in my first days back on the job."

"Understandable. I shall have to take up that particular line of questioning with SSA Hotchner then."

Reid winced; in trying to defend herself, Emily had accidentally put Hotch in the line of fire. They would have to apologize to him later.

"And what about this," she looked to the papers in her hand, making a show of putting on her reading glasses. "You wrote that your fellow agent disarmed one of the unsub's traps, yet you fail to elaborate on why this is. Why was it necessary, I thought? So I turn my attention to Agent Reid's report, and he writes that he actually became trapped, and was_ forced_ to disarm it. Interesting on two counts."

He already knew what those two counts were, but he listened anyway when she listed them, feeling like a dog with it's tail between it's legs: "First, it seems you, Agent Prentiss, have deliberately omitted the truth –without outright lying, I suppose—from your report. To protect your team-mate's reputation? Perhaps. I'm not sure how admirable that is under the circumstances."

Emily was silent.

"Meanwhile, you," she was addressing him now. "were very honest in your accounting of the event. Don't think I fail to appreciate that. But you seemed to have wandered into danger yet again. Should we expect this to happen every time your team lets you out of their sight?"

"No, ma'am."

"I hope not." She said. "And Prentiss, believe it or not I do understand your actions. Given you are required to risk your lives together frequently; loyalty is an unparalleled virtue in the BAU. But when you try to hide the sort of action that got him suspended in the first place—."

"I understand, ma'am," she said. Emily, unlike Reid, didn't look like she felt cowed at all. Strauss's thinly veiled contempt seemed to break against her like water against stone; he felt a rush of affection for her, wishing he could be so tough.

"Good," Strauss said. "Now, I have one final point…"

What? There was more?

"There was one key bit of information present in both your reports. About the trap set by the unsub." Her eyes glinted; who could guess with what. "I'm addressing the both of you; is it true Agent Reid solved the puzzle by translating an entire fictional alphabet in under five minutes?"

Reid's mouth fell open, but Emily spoke first: "Actually it was more like four. Maybe three and a half. He had to spend some time figuring out what the riddle was, and then decoding the password."

Strauss raised an eyebrow at her, and then looked to him for confirmation. He nodded with a small, half-hearted shrug; it didn't seem like such a huge accomplishment to him, when you considered that their lives were on the line. Emily's life in particular.

The three of them were silent for a beat…and then their Section Chief sighed. "You have considerable talents, Dr. Reid."

And then, with no more said on the matter, she turned and took her leave of them.

"Wow," Morgan said somewhere behind him, apparently dropping his charade. "You, Prettyboy, live a charmed life."

"Not exactly," he muttered.

"Oh c'mon, Strauss just gave you a compliment. You can't say that's not a major win for you. With the Gideon thing, I mean."

Ugh. He just had to bring up Gideon, didn't he?

"I'm not going to be popping any champagne, if that's what you mean. She knows I screwed up, no matter what happened after."

"Kid," Morgan said. "Your screw-ups make Gideon look like an amateur. Think about it."

He knew it was supposed to be a compliment. It was also fundamentally illogical, but he supposed he was meant to overlook things like that and just feel good about himself. Maybe he could manage that.

With a small grateful nod to Morgan, he returned to his work. A good chunk of it was done –he hadn't really been keeping track while he was doing it, as he tended not to. It was more meditative if he just let the words—

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Emily was watching him.

He knew from experience that if he looked to meet her gaze, she'd look away, pretending as if she'd been focused on something else the entire time. She was a decent actor; she would have fooled anyone but a fellow profiler. Her quickened blink rate told him more than she wanted him to know. He may have been deep in his work up 'til now, but they'd been playing this game (except it wasn't a game; he had no idea what it was) for hours. It had started about thirty minutes after he'd arrived that morning. At first he'd asked if she wanted anything; she said no, affecting a tone of faint surprise, like _who, me? _Eventually he learned not to acknowledge it, but he couldn't stop himself from trying to determine the reason.

(Also, he had to admit, he rather liked the attention. Whatever this was, it was better than the cold indifference he'd met on the jet. She was thinking of him. It made him happy)

(Unless she was thinking bad things, but he really didn't want to consider that right now).

So it was for the rest of that day.

And the next.

And the next.

There were no further visits from Strauss, and no official cases (though Reid did have a few more consultation profiles to write than usual, he noticed).

After work on the third day, Morgan offered a round of beer for the three of them.

"Can I have a coffee instead?" Reid said, expecting the eye-roll he received and not caring. Coffee was so much better than alcohol.

"Actually I'm pretty tired," Emily said. "I think I'm just going to head straight home."

"Aight, your loss," Morgan said.

Emily left ahead of them, already in the elevator and away; Morgan took a bit longer to get his things together. The pair of them walked together, and Reid listened while his friend spoke….sort of. He was aware they were having a conversation, and he was giving what he was sure were coherent responses (Thank God he was good at multi-tasking), but his mind was wandering around dark looks and strange silences. When they got to the parking lot he cast a quick glance around, but neither Emily nor her car were anywhere in sight. Already gone then, for another day.

Another night to spend wondering why.

He was in the passenger seat of Morgan's car halfway to the bar when he realized this was not where he wanted to be. Streetlights flashed by, each reminding him of that lightbulb in cartoons, the one that signifies a sudden revelation. And Morgan was still talking.

He wanted to be with Emily. He wanted to follow her, to walk up the path to her door, to feel the light of her home on his face. But more then that, he wanted an answer. An answer for the weird change in behaviour, sure, but also for…

Did he even have another question?

"Man, something is eating you up."

The sudden change in tone caught his attention. For the first time in minutes Reid looked at his friend and actually saw him and not –her.

"Huh?"

"Just now I asked if you actually understand Hawking's books, and you said 'precisely.' So either you ain't listening or…" he trailed off.

"I wasn't listening." No sense lying at this point.

"So what's on your mind?"

"Nothing. Just, um, statistics. You know me."

Morgan was giving him a sideways looks. "Uh huh." But commented no further.

'I must be going crazy,' Reid thought. 'I can't possibly miss her this much when I just saw her half-an-hour ago.'

Except it wasn't just a half an hour ago, really. It was days ago. The last time he'd really seen her was outside of Hughes' abandoned house, when she was holding his hand and telling Hotch what they'd found. He'd stood by and watched while she made that phone call, watched the way her lips shaped certain words, the way her eyes would be drawn to him by others. Sometimes she would hold his gaze and he would count the seconds without thinking, only realizing the total when one of them finally broke away. To his surprise, it wasn't always him (though it usually was) who looked away first. But then the car ride to the station…and the days after…

He knew he should be asking to be dropped off at Emily's right now. He knew if he didn't, he'd spend the rest of the evening with his face in a coffee mug, wallowing in cowardice and shame. But he just couldn't ask. It wasn't just that he was embarrassed –though there certainly was that—it was just that it seemed private, somehow. Asking Morgan to drop him off would be to involve a third party. So instead:

"Ah, Morgan? I think I've changed my mind about the drinks. I'm pretty tired too."

"Yeah?" It was like he'd been waiting for him to say something.

"I…Yeah."

He shrugged, "No problem. How do you plan on getting home?"

He'd commuted to work today, so no car… "I guess I'll call a taxi."

"Whoa now, if you really need to go that badly I can give you a ride—."

"No, it's fine." He tried to be as firm as possible. He was NOT going to be dropped off…er, well, yes he was, but by a taxi, not by someone he actually knew. Totally different, really. "A cab is fine. Just, um, pull over here." He nodded at an upcoming gas station.

"You sure?"

"Look, my apartment is really out of your way. Don't worry about it."

Morgan pulled over at the gas station, though he clearly wasn't happy about it. He asked if Reid knew his cell number –like he was dropping off a kid or something—and Reid thanked him and waved him off as he drove off down the road.

In the next few seconds his cell phone was by his ear, the number for the taxi company already dialled.

_**XxXxX**_

His heart was pounding in his chest by the time they pulled up in front of her brownstone. What he was going to say, he didn't know, he didn't even know why it was he HAD to be here, all he knew was that he had to be, that he couldn't go another minute without knowing why she had withdrawn from him—

(Withdrawn? That made it sound as if she was drawn to him in the first place, and he didn't even know THAT much)

-why she was always watching him when he wasn't looking, why she always looked away—

-and why did he care so much.

"Thanks," he muttered to the driver, shoving a fistful of bills into the man's hand. His eyes were fixed on her door. Her car was in the driveway; she was home, just inside and waiting for him, whether she knew it or not.

He knew he should be telling himself that she may be asleep, but he knew she wasn't. He knew her sleep patterns like he knew her birthday, like he knew what kind of music she listened to—

(songs would play on the radio when they were out to lunch and she would tap her foot to the ones she liked)

The grass was damp. It was way too late to be making social calls. He didn't care. And then his thumb was pressing against the doorbell.

The bell echoed throughout the house, and he waited. Then there came the heavy sounds of sturdy footfalls. It was only when the door opened that he realized that he wanted nothing more than to run and hide.

This was so confusing.

"Spencer!" she said, eyes wide. "What're you doing here? Is something…?"

"No no, nothings wrong. No, ah, case stuff," he said. "Um, can I come in?"

She widened the door for him. He realized vaguely that this was the second time he'd shown up unannounced at her door. Diana Reid would be so ashamed if she could see her boy now. She'd always raised him to conduct himself with utmost dignity, no matter what –though of course he'd never been as good at it as her.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked, still fixing him with that wide-eyed stare.

His heart twisted a little –there was none of that strange coldness here. She was worried about him.

"I'm fine. I think," he added the 'I think' on a whim –he didn't want to be accidentally dishonest, after all. "I just…"

Now he had to steel himself. He had to be straight and to the point, like he sometimes saw Hotch and Morgan do with suspects.

Except he really didn't want to treat Emily like a suspect, but it was the only comparison he knew to make really. It was the only confrontation he was really comfortable with.

Finally he settled on something bland and easy: "I need to talk to you." Good thing it also happened to be true.

"Ok," she said. "Should we go into my living room or do you want to stand?"

He nodded awkwardly towards the living room down the hall, and together they went. There was a glass half-full of wine set on the table. They sat together, on either end of her sofa, knees and torsos turned towards each other but otherwise (and he really couldn't help but notice this) his stance was rather defensive. Hers was open, and she leaned towards him. Still worried.

"Do you want me to get you one of those?" she asked, and it took him a few seconds to realize she was talking about the wine. He shook his head no.

"I'd really rather not drink right now."

"Spencer, seriously, what is it?" her voice actually raised an octave.

"I want to know what's going on."

He'd blurted it out before he could stop himself, and the effect was immediate. Her body language shut down, her leaning, caring posture pulled away. Even her eyes averted, briefly, before returning to his, painted in faux confusion. "What do you mean? What's going on?"

He hated to see her pull away like that. It was like she didn't want anything to do with him. But he had to find out…best just to be blunt and honest then. No matter how much he may regret it later.

"Ever since the basement, you've been different," he said. "You don't talk to me like you used to."

"Yes I do," but her eyes were averted again. "We talk all the time."

"But…" he rubbed his face with both hands spastically –this was so stressful and he didn't know _why. _"But it's _different_."

It was as if his words never made it across the couch to her, as if he had never spoken. Her expression was set, as was her body language. It seemed her strategy here was going to be deny, deny, deny. But deny what?

He knew what he was going to have to say. But he didn't want to. It was putting too much out there, like sticking ones leg in the path of a fast-approaching train. But he had to. He took a deep breath, willing himself not to fidget or scratch or anything else that he would normally do when he was stressed.

"You're right, you have been acting like normal lately," he saw her breath a small sigh of relief, but he wasn't done yet. "Or at least, what used to be normal. It's true that we were friends before we were both taken off the job –at least in a co-worker sense, although considering how much time the team spends with each other in a given week I'd say we're all a good deal closer than co-workers at nine to five jobs—but things changed. We spent time with each other when, like, NOT investigating horrible murders, and that…it meant a lot?" Was he saying the right things? Was he scaring her away? He didn't know; he couldn't actually will himself to look up at her face. He did know that his face was quickly heating up, however. "You know that Gideon was living with me at the time, and not giving me any answers, or really even giving me the time of day. That was lonely as hell. But you…"

"I know," she whispered.

There was a long silence. The wine glass sat untouched on the table between their knees.

"It carried over to work" he said. "For those first few days, at least."

As if speaking more to herself than to him: "How could it not?"

"Well, that's kind of the question," the tone he suddenly affected reminded him enough of an unsub interrogation to make him shudder slightly; he didn't want anything about Emily to remind him of work. Which was somewhat impossible, come to think of it… "It's like it's gone now. And maybe I'm just being paranoid, but it feels like you don't…" He was going to say 'don't want to be friends anymore', but for some reason he couldn't finish it. It felt wrong somehow. At long last he dragged his eyes up to her face—only to find that she was staring into the glass on the table

She winced. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt you."

"I just want to know why."

She was silent.

He groaned with exasperation. "Emily-"

He was going to say—he had no idea what she was going to say, but it hardly seemed to matter anymore. Emily had turned her eyes on him, and he'd been arrested mid-sentence, as if she was Medusa and he turned to stone by her gaze. But Medusa was able to freeze her victims with sheer horror; there was nothing horrific in Emily's face. Her lips were slightly parted, and he could hear the faint exhale of her breath. Could see the light flush of her skin.

But what really got him were the _eyes_.

They were glossed over, and so, so dark. The pupils were dilated to twice their normal size, fixed on his face, and he could do nothing –for a moment, at least—but stare back. Then something within those black depths stirred, and in turn something stirred within him. It was small, no more than the strike of a match, but it grew, until there was nothing but familiar-foreign heat and _her. _Time moved slowly, as it must for any burning creature, though of course only a few seconds had passed since she'd looked at him. He knew because he was counting her breaths, each small exhale sending a small thrill through him that he was beginning to understand vaguely as lust.

No, not lust, not quite. Lust was Lila, and misinformed fantasies at one o-clock in the morning. Lust was something akin to jealousy, often felt around Morgan when he bragged about his romantic escapades. It had nothing to do with Emily, who was his friend and his equal sometimes-superior and who has saved his life and listened to his rambles and made him feel better when he felt shitty and—

All things considered, his second kiss was remarkably better than his first. There was no taste of chlorine, for one, and Emily's lips demanded nothing of him he couldn't give. He wondered if perhaps HE were asking too much this time –it was he who was kissing her, having slid across the couch and touched his lips to hers in one fluid, totally unplanned motion—but if she had any complaints she wasn't voicing them. The moment he'd realized what he was doing was the moment he became terrified of rejection, of that sympathetic yet firm push away, or worse, a panicked shove. But instead she'd simply gasped (was she as surprised as he was? Maybe even more so?), and rested her hands lightly on his chest, as if she didn't know what to do with them. One of his arms was just hanging limp from its socket, and the other hand was on her cheek, as he'd used it to guide their mouths together. She was kissing him back.

He couldn't believe it. She was kissing him back.

He knew, at least, that one had to keep one's eyes closed, and so the world was dark, and all he could do was feel. It was ingenious really; how else would he have noticed how soft her lips were, how they felt like they fit perfectly against his, or how her hands brushing against his shirt sounded?

Just as he was beginning to wonder when he should stop (he didn't want to but he didn't want to seem indecent), he heard her make a small impatient noise in the back of her throat. He felt the vibrations of it in their kiss.

'_Am I doing something wrong?_' He wondered, horrified, when all of a sudden the light touch on his chest became very hard.

He was being pushed back.

But not pushed _away._

He broke away for a small gasp—and she closed the distance between them again, refusing to end the kiss even as he was being laid on his back, his head landing on the arm rest. He realised he was curved underneath her, that she was actually on top of him, and his heart began to pound in his chest. His mind was racing, a thousand different images flying by his minds eye, each so fast and bright they resembled a highway by nightfall. The heat that had overwhelmed him just under a minute ago was now pooling in a very specific and –Oh God, very embarrassing part of him. But still he didn't want to stop….not yet…

She'd long since taken the lead, and he was only imitating her motions, struggling to do this right, to do this well. So when she began to slow down, so did he, though with regret plunging into him like an anchor into water. She pulled away…then left two smaller kisses on his lips.

He opened his eyes.

She was looking down at him, and he was vaguely aware that her legs were straddling his hips, and that the pooling heat was reacting accordingly. There was no way he'd ever live this down. He was sure he'd feel very embarrassed about it…later…

He was also sure this was going to lead to a lot of questions. And a lot of messyness. All later, and all having very little to do with the way she was looking at him, as if there was nothing else in the world worth looking away for at this particular moment. His heart was still pounding, and she was close enough to hear it.

When she sighed it picked up tempo; what if she told him it was a mistake? To get out? She couldn't—it would kill him. It seemed ridiculous, to walk into this house not knowing what he wanted, but now that he knew he couldn't bear to have it taken away. But then she leaned her forehead against his, staring into his eyes in a world-weary, yet happy sort of way:

"We are so screwed."

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: BUN BUN BUUUUUUH. Romance, at last! Of a physical type!_

_Reviews make me dance in the rain!_


	13. Chapter 13: Serious

XxXxX

**Chapter Thirteen: Serious**

XxXxX

She expected that night to be dull and lonely, but then Spencer showed up, and everything changed.

He wasn't able to stay long after the kiss. They both had work early the next morning, and frankly, Emily didn't trust herself enough to let him stay the night. So it was after three smaller kisses and a few awkward words ("You were okay with that, right?" "Of course I was, don't be silly. More than okay." "Oh, good."), they parted ways. She called a cab for him and watched him drive away, rubbing her arms against the cool breeze. He came as a friend and co-worker and left as a—

A what, exactly? A boyfriend? A secret lover?

She'd have to take that up with him in the morning. For now she turned and headed inside, as soon as his cab was out of sight. It felt strange to watch him go –and as corny as it sounded, it felt like some small part of her –the part that usually kept its ears perked for noises in alleyways, perhaps—went with him.

Inside, she turned off all the lights on her first floor, then trekked up the stairs, changed into her flannel pyjama pants and a t-shirt, and slipped into bed. The bedside lamp went off with a click, but her eyes refused to close. She ended up lying on her back, one hand curled behind her pillow, the other resting on her chest, staring up into her ceiling. She knew she must sleep, but she couldn't help but entertain the fantasies and wonderings that slithered into her mind.

She'd kissed Spencer. More importantly, Spencer had kissed her first—

(and looked up at her in just the right way, eyes filled with a bright longing she'd never seen before)

-which meant that her feelings were not as unrequited as she'd originally assumed, standing outside of Hughes house, holding his hand and thinking she was doomed. It would be so typical, and so REID, if she'd spent the rest of their working relationship yearning for him, and he might have never noticed. Might have always had his thoughts lost in theory and facts and statistics, as far away and untouchable as a star.

She _thought_ he was untouchable. So standing there with him, feeling for the first time the depth of her feelings, she decided she would ignore them. Try to stamp them out. Smother them with workplace appropriate gestures and mannerisms. Had she been left to continue, it might have even worked.

Except Spencer wasn't quite so untouchable she'd thought. He'd felt, and he'd noticed, and he was the one who kissed her. It was even a pretty good kiss, once she took charge anyway -she would never tell him so, but he'd had no idea what he was doing. Looked like Morgan's whispers about his inexperience weren't just macho teasing.

Still though, it was good. Physical sensation aside, it felt good to have his lips on hers. To have that in real life, firm as flesh, rather than simply floating in the back of her head was satisfying enough to become its own fantasy…if recollection could be called fantasy…

It was with these thoughts, lingering on the feel of his thin frame beneath her, that she fell asleep.

XxXxX

The next morning was another paperwork day. There were pros and cons to this, in Emily's eyes. The con was that she would have to sit next to the man she'd kissed (okay, made out with, if she was going to be honest) all day, without alerting the FBI to their, erm, situation. Considering her floor was the floor with all the profilers on it, this could very well turn out to be a challenge. She remembered Rossi's teasing comments about Spencer's butt, and wondered if the rest of the team was silently thinking the same.

She thought of Hotch and winced. What with all the rest of the bullshit going on in the BAU right now, the last thing she wanted to do was add a pair of frolicking lovers to his problems. His job would be to report them if he knew, but she knew he would hate to do it. She also knew he'd withheld information from the higher-ups before. She didn't know if he could afford to do it again.

So, that was the con. A rather large con, come to think of it. But there was still the pro. Laughably small in comparison, but it was there. It almost made her laugh:

At least they didn't have a case. A case would mean working directly with each other, in front of the rest of the team in full-blown behaviour analysis mode. They'd be like hens in a shooting gallery.

So there was that.

Unfortunately, a second con was added as soon as she stepped out of the elevator; less than twelve feet ahead of her, Gideon and Strauss were standing together. To her horror, she realized Strauss was smiling, which was something she regularly associated with suffering and kicked puppies, but at this particular moment she was smiling like she had just finished laughing.

The concept was so alien that it took her a few moments to realize that the pair of them were locked in casual conversation.

Creepy.

And just a bad sign all around; Strauss may have grudgingly admitted that Spencer wasn't useless, but she wasn't exactly adding him to her Christmas-shopping list. Their boss may pretend like she was objective in the workplace, but Emily knew better; anyone who saw her dealings with the head of the other team, Sam Cooper, was aware that being in her good-books was key to surviving in the BAU. Spencer –and Hotch's team in general—was so far out of Strauss's good books they could hardly be mentioned on the same breath.

Gideon was smiling too –they way he used to when he won chess, or when he was remembering a case with particular fondness. Not the same way as when he was watching Charlie Chaplin. That made her feel a bit better.

_'I can't wait until he's gone,'_ she thought, and it surprised her. She'd never really held any ill-will against Gideon. Hell, she'd even defended him after he'd left, to Spencer of all people. But now that he was back…

No, it wasn't just that he was back. It was that he was here, trying to take Spencer away from the team.

"_Nothing personal, just business,_" she muttered in Italian. Rossi, if he'd been there, would have laughed.

Turning her back on the unlikely duo, she made her way to her desk. Spencer was already there, and her heart jumped at the sight of him. It was as if she'd forgotten what he'd looked like in the few hours they'd been apart. How strange—and yet how all the more pleasing to be seeing him again.

Morgan was here too, and she noticed neither of them was typing. She got closer and discovered –oh, and wasn't this predictable—that Morgan was having too much fun pestering his junior agent to work.

While she was watching the laughing man, he caught her eye and grinned, beckoning her over, "Emily!" he said. "Help a man out!"

"What's the problem?"

"Pretty boy has a secret!" She looked at Spencer. He was blinking rapidly, eyes darting over his desk, trying to pick something to concentrate on to better ignore his attacker. Then he saw her. He looked sheepish; apparently he'd tried to play it cool, and failed.

If this was any indication of how hard keeping this thing quiet was going to be, they were doomed.

"C'mon, let me know, is it a girl?" he was having way too much fun. "Grown boys don't just run off in the middle of the night for nothin'."

"Well, Derek," she said. Spencer looked up at her, surprised at her teasing tone. "Perhaps, Reid just doesn't want to kiss and tell. SOME men are gentlemen, you know."

"Yeah, I think I've heard something about that," he said. "Not any guy you've ever dated though right?"

It worked. The banter was now strictly between the two of them, a back and forth insulting the other's love lives. She shared a quick glance with Spencer, who could now afford to be silent. He mouthed 'thank you' and then turned to his screen at last. Allowing herself only a flicker of pride, her and Morgan kept up the assault until Hotch came out of his office to scowl at them, and then they were silent.

XxXxX

"Um, I have some questions," Reid said, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Jesus, don't sneak up on me like that!"

He rocked on his heels, hand stuffed in his pockets and looking around him for potential eavesdroppers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Just trying to be…discreet, I guess."

She had to admit it was a good call. The little corner designated for coffee brewing and such was far enough away from the general work area for a private conversation, but it was far from _private_.

"Okay, get yourself a drink while you talk, then it'll look like we're just chatting."

He nodded, and came to stand beside her where she was waiting for the coffee to be done.

"So what's your question?"

"How serious are we?"

If this had been a cartoon, her jaw would have hit the floor, or her head would have exploded, or any other ridiculous visual metaphor signifying extreme shock. As it was she just stood there, stunned into silence.

He continued before she had any chance to recover: "I'm really sorry if that's a stupid question but…well, I've never had anything like…Morgan made me think of it, actually…"

Uh oh.

"How did _Morgan_…?"

"Well up until just recently he had a different girl every time I saw him." He said it all in one breath, like he wanted to get this over with quickly. "And he always acted like it was normal. He told me he wasn't 'ready to be serious.' I've heard that phrase elsewhere, but I never knew how people figured out if they were going to be serious or not. Like, do you talk about it or…?"

"Generally you talk about it, yes."

"Oh, good." He had a little smile for a second, pleased he did something right. "I'm glad, actually. It's easier to talk about things than to try and guess just from your actions."

"Coming from a profiler, that says a lot," she said.

He frowned, "It's not the same. A serial killer and a normal person will have two very different sets of behaviour, but both casual partners and married couples kiss and have sex. Maybe there is a difference, but _I_ don't know what it is." Frustration tinted his words, and she wondered how long he'd been trying to figure this out. How many times had he replayed their kiss in his head, looking for signs of commitment or dismissal?

"But you know there are emotional differences, right?"

"Obviously," he said. "That's why I want to know. Um," and all at once the analytical Dr. Reid was gone, replaced with shy and inexperienced Spencer once again. "I'm hoping you say this is serious, actually. Really hoping."

All it took was quick, cursory look back to confirm that this was the very first time she'd ever heard a man say that. It was bizarre enough that he would come asking in the first place, never mind just throwing all his cards on the table for her to see. Was anything about this relationship going to be normal?

Her bets were on no. And given the kind of weird that Reid tended to produce, she didn't suppose she especially minded.

In any case, her answer was obvious. She'd known it even before he'd asked.

"It is," she said, and reached to give his hand a tiny squeeze, then releasing it again. Next to her, she felt his body give a funny limp shake, as if a huge amount of tension had finally been let go. How nervous he must have been –how afraid that she was going to send him away with a laugh. Or worse.

"Thank you," he said. She wanted to kiss him, but couldn't. That was going to be the story of her life now, she supposed.

The coffee was done. They both took their mugs and went back to their desks, just co-workers to all around them, but now officially a couple, even if only to themselves.

XxXxX

Hotch stopped by the side of her desk. "Could you do me a favour?" he asked.

She looked up at him. In his hand was a file with about two dozen forms in it, all filled out and signed by him. The papers weren't interesting, though. What caught her attention was the very low tone of his voice, probably the closest thing to a whisper her normally straight-forward leader could manage.

"Sure," she said. "What's up?"

He glanced over her head –directly at Spencer, and against reason her stomach dropped. Did he know already? In a relationship for less than three hours and she was already being called out on it?

It turned out, no. In that same low voice: "Could you take these to Jason, please? I would do it myself, but I have someone on hold, and his office is a bit out of the way—."

Ah. Now she understood.

"Yeah, no problem." She stood up to take the file off his hands.

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah."

Though she hadn't actually been there, not since Gideon moved in anyway. She wondered what would be changed. Would he have photos of the victims he'd met, the ones he'd 'saved' already set up, the way any other man would set up trophies? A film reel, with the image of a frolicking Charlie Chaplin on the wall?

Hotch was already gone, speed-walking back to his office –must be someone important on hold. Before she left, she spared a glance at Spencer. He hadn't heard a thing; he was in that bent over, mouth open phase of concentration. Last she heard he was already done his actual work, and was now proofreading an extra credit essay for his weekend class. _'Makes you wonder how much time he'll actually have for me,'_ she mused, and then set off.

Gideon's office WAS out of the way, much further from the bullpen then would usually be allowed, given the fast-pace of their work. But exceptions were made for him, it seemed. The fact that he even had an office was evidence enough of that. Not that it was a particularly nice one. If she remembered correctly, it was on the small side, with no windows and no extra room for film reels.

He was sitting behind his desk when she got to him, looking over the rims of his reading glasses down at a notepad –he was still one of the few agents who preferred pen and paper over computers. He wasn't smiling now. A shallow frown that seemed more sad than frustrated tainted his usual impassiveness. She knocked on the doorframe, alerting him to her presence, and he looked up with the same air Ebenezer Scrooge must have looked up at his cheerful nephew.

"Can I help you?" he said, as if they had never worked together or slept on the same jet or played cards and chess. It amazed her that such confident warmth and such alienating coldness could come from the same person; she was heavily reminded of the day she first worked with him, back when even speaking fluent Arabic didn't make her useful in his eyes.

"Hotch told me to give these to you," she said, and stepped into his office, offering the file. He took it.

"Thank you," he said.

"No problem." To her surprise, the office was almost entirely barren. There wasn't even another chair besides the one he was sitting in; perhaps he didn't want visitors? Or maybe he simply didn't expect them. What surprised her most, however, was the lack of wall fixtures. No degrees or diplomas, and not a single photograph. Curious.

She was just turning to go –no point wasting words trying to be friendly to someone who didn't even have an extra chair—when he spoke again.

"Prentiss, stay a moment. I'd like a word."

_'If this keeps up I'll be all out of words by the end of the day,'_ she thought bizarrely. As if anyone could run out of words. Aloud, she said, "Um, okay." An extra sweep of the room unearthed nowhere to sit. Was she expected to stand?

If Gideon had any idea how awkward it was to stand in his doorway and talk to him, he didn't show it. Instead he leaned back in his own chair, removing his glasses and twirling them in his fingers, watching the way the light reflected off the lenses. She stood, waiting patiently for him to say something. For the longest time he was silent, deliberating on something…who knew what.

"Look-." She began.

"About Spencer," he said, shutting her up at once. "You and him are good friends?"

'_Oh, you have no idea.'_

"We are."

"I see," he said. "Then I suppose he's told you about my recent living arrangements."

It was phrased as a statement, but she didn't like the feel of the silence. "He told me that you came to stay with him for awhile, yes."

"You two spent a lot of time together while I was there."

She nodded, wondering where he was going with this.

"I suppose I may as well be honest with you, despite the fact that we never knew each other all that well. Spencer and I did not part on good terms. In fact," The sadness in him returned, and he was no longer looking at her but at something beyond her. "I'd say we parted on very bad terms. But I want him to know –and I'm telling you because you are his friend—that I hope we can put that behind us."

"So," she said. "What you're saying is you'd like to be his friend as well?"

"I'd like to be his friend _again_, yes. Once he's gotten over his shock."

"But what about this whole thing that's going on right now?" She realized her voice was getting a little louder and little firmer than usual, threatening to turn from casual conversation into a shout. Luckily, Gideon seemed unruffled. "Aren't you trying to take his JOB away?"

He sighed the sigh of deep regret, the way one might over something unfortunate but unavoidable. Then he put his glasses back on and went back to his notepad. "That was Strauss's idea, not mine."

"But you're going along with it."

"Yes, I am. A young man like him has too much potential, too much to lose here."

"You mean here saving lives?"

"Here in darkness," he said, so soft she almost didn't hear it.

She was dumbfounded.

After a few moments of pregnant silence, he nodded at the door and muttered, "That's all."

"Sir," she said without thinking, and was out the door. Thoughts of Gideon and darkness and Spencer followed.

XxXxX

The day was beginning to wind down. That first confusing, dramatic, (and sometimes, yes, torturous day –having to sit so near him without touching or speaking too fondly was almost as bad as being nowhere near him at all) day. Garcia gave them all a hearty farewell, leaving the office in her best leather jacket and sparkly yellow pumps –apparently her and Kevin had a date tonight—and Rossi soon followed, giving her a small wink as he passed. JJ and Hotch were still hidden away in their respective offices, and would be until long after the rest of them were gone. Morgan was only just now starting to pack up his things.

"What, nothing planned for tonight?" she asked, noting the bags under his eyes and unusual silence.

"Not tonight," he said. "JJ's been pacing her office, which usually means we have a case tomorrow. I'm going to bed."

"In which house?"

"Haha," he said. "Night, y'all."

Emily and Spencer both wished him goodnight, and watched him leave. As soon as he was gone, Spencer turned to her.

"In about fifteen minutes, do you want to go together?" he asked.

"Together?"

"Yeah, I was kind of thinking…" he swung around in his chair a bit. Then said with his lips barely moving, only for her to hear: "That the, uh, parking lot will probably be empty in fifteen minutes."

She liked the sound of that.

"Did you know you're a genius?"

He shrugged, looking embarrassed.

The fifteen minutes that followed were some of the longest she'd experienced in recent memory, but they passed. Without a glance in each other's direction they rose almost in unison, gathering up their things and swinging on their jackets. It felt conspicuous and awkward, like a play put on by pre-schoolers. As far as she could tell though, no one noticed.

"Going home?" she asked in the breeziest tone she could manage.

"Yes, I'm beat." His acting was cringe-worthy. No wonder he was never allowed to play Good Cop, Bad Cop.

They went through the motions to the elevator, through the first floor, and then out the door. Without stopping she murmured; "Shit, security cameras."

"Oh! I thought of that!" he said. "I mapped out a blind spot this morning before I came in. It's this way."

Feeling like she was the bad guy in a Hollywood spy flick, she allowed herself to be led to weak point in the FBI's security, trying to contain a fit of laughter. Of all the things she never imagined herself doing, avoiding the Feds for a goodnight kiss was very, very high on the list.

After awhile he stopped, "I think this is it here."

"You sure? We wouldn't want to give our enemies any blackmail fodder."

It was meant as a joke, but Reid seemed alarmed at the idea. He scanned the building, eyes stopping at points where he knew cameras were planted, counting out the degrees of the angles under his breath.

"Yes, this is it," he said. "If we were to move about two feet north we would be in the visual overlap of those two cameras-." He pointed at things she couldn't see. "But as it is we're totally invisible."

"Huh," she said. "Hey, how come you never decided to become a criminal? Bet you'd be good at it."

"Lousy hours."

"I see," Then, moving closer to him she said: "So you're saying that nobody can see this right now?"

"I'm at least ninety-seven percent sure that no one can see this right now."

"Good enough for me."

Then she put her arms around his neck and raised her lips to his. With nothing to lean against his knees buckled, and his hands grasped at her awkwardly.

Still though. He was getting better.

XxXxX

_A/N: I know, I should be shot for updating so late. *hangs head in shame*_

_But still, reviews make me wanna party like a rockstar! So please do. *smile*_


	14. Chapter 14: Dear Mom

XxXxX

**Chapter Fourteen: Dear Mom**

XxXxX

_Dear Mom,_

_How are things in Vegas? I hope you're doing well—your doctor wrote me a week ago and said you were having a very good month. He's a nice man; you should trust him more than you do, I think. _

_I'm sorry I haven't written as frequently as usual (I'm sending along a book I picked up to make up for it…one of your favourite authors!), but things have been-_

He stopped and stared at the 'but.' It was an ugly word, a word that preceded excuses and justification, a word designed to lessen guilt in guilty parties. Diana Reid hadn't received a word from him in over three weeks. She didn't deserve a 'but.'

So he tried again: -_I'm sorry I haven't written as frequently as usual. _

(he cut out the part about the book as well; it seemed too much like a bribe. Best just to send it without drawing attention to it)

-_I don't have any good excuses—_

No, this wouldn't work either. Better nix the whole apology thing. She would think he was simpering.

_Things have been pretty good over here. Hotch and I are away on our own right now, interviewing an ex-serial killer. In prison, obviously. Maybe you heard about him last year? He was killing young, single men with a handgun. He turned himself in before we ever got called in to work the case. We're here to find out why._

Mom liked to know about his 'adventures.' This wasn't much of one, truly –it was eleven pm, and he was sitting at the cramped little desk in his cramped little hotel room, writing this letter by the light of a single lamp. He'd spent his day watching video footage of Hotch talking circles around their interviewee and rubbing his eyes from jetlag. He doubted even the Fisher King could have put a romantic spin on this tale. But a slow news day was still news, he supposed.

Tapping his pen on the desk and scanning the paragraph, he found his eyes catching on the first sentence. 'Things have been pretty good here.' Have they?

Well, there was Gideon coming back.

And the possibly getting fired.

And the almost getting killed.

But then there was Emily.

Emily—

_There's something I should tell you…_

He stopped and scratched out the line (just a first draft anyway), and rewrote it.

_There's something I want to tell you…_

This was probably karma. He didn't really believe in a cosmic force of justice, but moments like this could squeeze what little faith he had to the surface. After all, he'd never really had to confess his feelings to Emily. They just sort of…spoke for themselves. In a physical way, at least.

He groaned and ruffled his own hair. Now was NOT the time to be thinking of Emily and, well, physical things. That would be beyond distracting. And he was supposed to be writing a letter to his _mother._

So yes.

Back to business.

He looked down at the page, feeling all the more tired by the pitiful number of words he'd managed to pile together. Never mind!

A letter for his mother.

About his new girlfriend. How much information was appropriate?

It was as he'd been thinking before (before thoughts of lips and hands and black hair got all mixed up in it), he'd never really had to confess his feelings to anyone before. He had no idea how to go about it.

Mom liked narratives, he knew that. Sometimes he would paint his letters in evocative detail, just to liven up the story. Real cases would suddenly be film noir on paper, or mythology from the dark ages; he knew she liked these letters the best, the ones that made her most sure her son wasn't wasting his time being _normal_, God forbid.

He felt sure he could manage a humble homage to _Romeo and Juliet_. Too bad the idea was icky. Nobody ever wanted to be Mrs. Montague.

So the story-telling method was definitely out. Cold, hard facts remained.

_I have a girlfriend._

There. Was that so hard?

_Her name is Emily Prentiss. We've been dating for about two weeks now—_

Hmmm, if you can call sneaking kisses in the parking lot 'dating.' They had yet to go on an actual date.

-_We've been together for about two weeks now. We met at my office, where we actually work together nearly every day. I think you would like her; she's tough and smart. Maybe next time we have a case in Vegas I'll introduce the two of you formally. _

That, surely, was all that needed to be said about that. With a nod he scribbled another conversational paragraph and shoved the paper from him. There was time to write the good draft tomorrow, after work. He rose from the desk, switched off the lamp and slid into bed, where he stared into the ceiling until the sun finally rose.

XxXxX

"You look like hell," Hotch said.

"Good morning to you, too."

"Let's _hope_ it's a good morning." His boss turned to the small grainy screen before them; pictured on it was Graham Porter, the serial killer they were interviewing. He was a large, watery man; his hair and lips were thin, his eyes too large for even his puffy face. He sat with his hands clasped between his knees, head bowed; when asked about it the previous day, he explained he was praying. "His demeanour hasn't changed."

"You think he's actively resisting us?"

"I'm not sure. He volunteered for this, but he's not giving us anything useful."

"He's not on death row, so he can't be stalling for time," he said. "Unless he just wanted something to do?"

"I don't get that from him," Hotch said. "I'll go in now –you watch and take notes."

Reid nodded and sat before the screen, pen poised for action.

The killer shot and killed four men, of differing ages, body types, and ethnicities. There was no sexual assault. No prior contact with the victims, who were apparently all approached at random. The case had been in JJ's files –she had, in fact, been poring over them minutes before they got the call—when he turned himself in. Porter had no previous criminal record other than one DUI in his teen years. He was pious. He had a job that made few enemies. In other words, he had no reason to be a killer.

Hotch began in the usual way—by fanning out the pictures of the victims before him. Porter sniffed loudly and looked the other way, fixing a blank wall with a china doll stare. The pictures weren't gruesome –at least not by Reid's admittedly skewed standards. They each showed only a pale corpse with a single bullet wound in their chest. Blood was minimal, as all of it had pooled underneath their bodies rather than on their chests or faces. Surely he'd also seen them all before. Why look away? He noted it without looking down from the screen, emphasizing it with an asterisk for special consideration.

Hotch asked what the names of the men were, and Porter listed them off with an added 'God forgive me.' And so it went, same as the day before.

Once again, they had no answers.

XxXxX

"What do you suppose everyone else is up to right now?"

He wanted to ask, what do you suppose Emily is up to right now. It surprised him how much he missed her. The dull grey splotches under his eyes, which ached with the effort of staying open, was a public testament to that. A vague sense of hollowness, not in him but in the air around him, as if the space were lacking for not encasing her, was a more private symptom.

"Working," Hotch said. "You wrote here that Porter developed a twitch in his fingers halfway through the interview. Are you sure of that?"

'Yes, it seemed compulsive." They were off-duty now, but Hotch was nothing if not single-minded. It was the first time it really bothered him; before, he'd always been able to carry on in work-mode as long as was necessary, which was probably why Hotch chose him for these trips in the first place. It made his own workaholism seem more normal by comparison.

It was different now. He didn't feel like talking about Porter. Porter was old news. He wanted to talk about Emily. "Did JJ say anything about a case they'd be working while they were gone?"

"Yes. You don't think the murders could have been the result of a compulsive desire to kill?"

"Seems like a stretch to me. Did she say anything about the case? Like, where they were going or—."

"Only briefly. If I were to profile this guy as a suspect and not as a confirmed killer, I'd say they had the wrong man. He's meek, he's moderately educated, no sexual deviancy to speak of-."

"Yeah, weird. Say, do you think they'd like it if we called to say hi?"

Hotch looked up, a deep crevice across his forehead, "Who?"

"Uh," he said. "The team."

"You want to call them about this case? Well, if it comes to that…"

It was no good. There were two conversations here. And neither of them was making him feel closer to Emily. He stood with a sigh.

"I think I'm going back to the hotel. I'm still kind of lagged from the flight."

"Oh," Hotch seemed surprised, and Reid knew why; he wasn't the type to let physical illness slow him down. "Sure. If you need to come in an hour later tomorrow, just page me."

He was already halfway out the room when: "Actually, Reid, maybe that's a bad idea. Come in the usual time."

He turned, bewildered, and saw that Hotch's pained expression matched his tone. The older agent wasn't meeting his eye.

"If you took even an hour off, I'd have to include it in my report," he said.

"I can't afford even an hour?"

"Frankly? No. Gideon," he tested the waters with the name; Reid was careful to show no expression when his superior glanced up at him. "has been logging extra hours almost every night. His work on cases has been solid, too."

"And mine hasn't been?"

"Yours always is. I'm just saying that the outcome of this is out of my hands. But I'm still the head of this team, and I won't risk giving her ammunition against you. Come in the usual time. Good night."

When he got back to his room he lurched to the desk, falling upon it like a man lost in a desert falls upon an oasis. He found the letter –the rough, incorrect draft, anyway—and scratched it all out. He ripped out a fresh sheet from his notebook, and began again. This time he skipped the formalities and went straight for the bone.

_Dear Mom,_

_I have a huge problem, and I hope you can give me some advice. I've recently been seeing—_

(it didn't matter, the little inaccuracies didn't matter)

_-a woman, and I really like her, but we work together. I probably don't have to tell you that fraternization between agents at the FBI is extremely frowned upon; people have even been fired over it. _

_Truth be told, Mom, my job position isn't exactly stable right now. I was suspended last month, and now I'm on trial to see if I'm even fit to stay. Things aren't looking great so far._

_I want to keep my job. I couldn't live without my job –and I can't see myself doing anything else. When I was suspended, I nearly went mad. But at the same time, it was this girl who kept me sane. But I don't want to endanger her career either._

_If she had to choose between this job, and me, I think she would pick the job. _

_I wouldn't blame her._

He paused, briefly, then wrote:

_In all honesty, I might do the same._

There it was, the ugly truth of it. It felt like a betrayal to have it here on paper, even though he'd always felt it. But what was worse was he wasn't even SURE. Maybe he would pick Emily. Maybe not. It felt odd to not know something so basic about himself.

Never mind what her opinion on the matter might be.

Well, it was a lovely little confession piece, but there was no way he could send this to his mom. There was no reason to tell her about his job troubles, which would only upset her. He couldn't imagine what she might think upon reading the line 'I nearly went mad' –annoyance at the melodrama, or horror at the possibility? Diana was so protective of his mind, the way other mothers were over skinned-knees. Sending her this in her condition would be cruel and irresponsible. So he tore it to shreds, without even finishing.

_Dear Mom,_

_I'm in a relationship and very happy. The happiest I've been in a long time._

That was true too. But it wasn't what he wanted to say, exactly. So it was scratched out, and replaced by nothing. Another night passed, and his letter remained a void of white.

XxXxX

The next day got them no closer with Porter; the man broke down into tears, but said nothing.

"This may have been a waste of our time," Hotch said. "We only have tomorrow left to get anything out of him."

Reid nodded, feeling weary from the work and from missing Emily, which was not homesickness but in the same neighbourhood. If he had his way they'd give up on Porter this second, and march to the jet without stopping even to fetch their bags from the hotel. They could be home by dinner-time and maybe he might even get to see her before the day was out.

There was, however, one more night to go.

XxXxX

_Dear Mom,_

The rest was still blank.

He was considering perhaps simply not writing a letter –would another week of silence really be so terrible for her? (the answer was, of course, yes), when the sound of the cord-phone ringing startled him. Nobody had ever called him in his room before; he'd somewhat assumed the squatting phone was for show.

On the third ring he answered; "Hello?"

"Dr. Spencer Reid?"

It was the lady from the front desk; her name tag read Becky and she had had a very faint stain on her blouse when they'd met. "Yes, speaking."

"Hi, you have a call on hold right now. I just wanted to check that it was okay before I put them through."

"Oh," he said. "Did they give their name?"

"Sure did, do you know an Emily Prentiss?"

He swallowed, and slowly sat on the edge of his bed. "Yes, put her through."

"No problem hon."

There was a brief buzzing sound, while his ears strained to hear her voice, to pick up some soft intake of breath. Odd, how desperate the anticipation was. It was only a phone call.

Finally there was a click—and then she was there: "Hey!"

"Hey yourself," he said. "What're you doing calling me at-." He checked his watch. "—eleven forty-two at night?"

"Would you believe I missed you?"

A smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe."

"How's the interrogation going?"

"Terrible."

"Oh, sorry. Things are good here. We just got back from Boston, and believe me, if I hadn't been out of town I would have called you sooner then this."

"Did you literally just walk in the door?"

"Literally."

That was a nice, unexpected ego boost. He leaned back on his elbows, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, part-recline part-stretch. "Did you catch the bad guy?"

"Yeah, same old same old."

He laughed, then said, "I missed you too."

"That's good, or I'd just feel stupid," she said. There was a sound on the other end, a rustling sound –and he realized with a jolt that she was probably getting undressed for bed. "I actually have a proposition for you, Dr. Reid."

He knew intellectually that she was speaking the way she always did, so why did she suddenly sound so…seductive? "A…proposition?"

"Yes!" she said. "But first tell me, what are your weekend plans?"

"I have one class, then nothing," he said on autopilot; his mind was too busy trying to stifle images of Emily –undressing—

"What time does your class end?"

"Around five in the afternoon." The heat pooling underneath his skin felt good –but he really shouldn't let that happen, because it was rude, or…something…

"Ah, so it all goes according to my devious plan," she said. "How would you like to go to dinner this weekend then?"

That brought his imagining to an abrupt halt; though not in a bad way. "Huh?"

"Dinner. You and me," she said. "Basically I'm asking you on an actual date."

It took him awhile to hear the part about the date; his mind lingered awhile on the 'you and me' part. 'You and me' as a concept was a fairly fascinating subject, after all.

"I would love to," he said at last, once all the words got through.

"Great!" she said, and he might have imagined it, but was there a smidgeon of relief in her voice? "Then I'll pick you up, and we'll go Dutch, if that's alright with you?"

He had no idea what going Dutch was, but he agreed to it anyway. Whatever got him at a dinner table across from her –by God, across from her, on a date, and NOT at work where they had to be sneaky. The idea was mind-blowingly awesome.

They said goodnight shortly afterward –he noticed their goodnights were getting longer and longer over the phone—and almost at once he turned back to his letter. The words poured from his pen effortlessly now.

_Dear Mom,_

_I just wanted to let you know that I've met someone. Her name is Emily Prentiss; she works on my team with me at the BAU. There are some problems with that, as dating co-workers isn't allowed, and I can't lie and say I'm not worried. This could go very, very badly for both of us. _

_I kind of think it might be worth it, though. This is actually the happiest I've been in such a long time, and I think it's the same for her (though I wouldn't speak for her). Just talking to her seems to make everything else around me, everything negative, seem trivial. _

_I was originally going to write you to find out what I should do –but it seems to me now that I never really wanted to know what I should do. Emily and I will figure that out ourselves. I think I just wanted you to know. And that I just wanted to brag to somebody._

_I'll make sure to introduce the two of you soon. I'm sure you'll like her._

_Thanks for listening, Mom._

_Sincerely,_

_Spencer._

XxXxX

"I'm ready to talk now," Porter said.

'Excuse me?" Hotch looked up from his folded arms, where he'd been sitting in meditative silence for the last four minutes. Reid leaned forward, almost close enough to touch his nose to the screen.

"I'm sorry I killed those people. It makes me sick to think of it. I don't even know why…" Porter looked away, tears building in his bulbous eyes. "I invited you here so you could figure out what was wrong, so you could stop it…somewhere else. But I couldn't get up the courage…"

"So make up for it now and talk quickly," Hotch said. There were only a few hours left of this interview; time was precious now.

"Okay," Porter said. "This is what happened…"

Their time, it seemed, had not been wasted.

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: Reviews have me walking on sunshine!_


	15. Chapter 15: Seduction

_A/N: Okay so, confession time. That date that Emily asked on Reid last chapter? Well, it happened off screen. Sorry! Maybe I'll make a oneshot out of it, if you guys want._

XxXxX

**Chapter Fifteen: Seduction**

XxXxX

The team didn't go out on the town together often. Usually they were all too busy –or, frankly, too sick of each other—to make the effort. But earlier in the week Morgan and Rossi got to talking, and they'd dragged Hotch into it with such insistence and bravado that by the end their leader seemed to believe it was his idea. Plans were made, baby-sitters were hired for Jack and Henry, and Reid found his weekend booked without much of his own input.

In the past he wouldn't even have noticed. The entitlement of it, that is. One minute he was just at his desk, working, and the next Morgan was in his face telling him a time and an address. A few months ago he would have been thrilled to have a social event forced upon him; the forced kind were the only ones he got to participate in. But now he had a girlfriend. Not that anybody knew that, of course, but now he couldn't help but think, _hey, how do you know I don't have plans already?_

Said girlfriend seemed to have none of the same reservations, "Kick. ASS." She said, exchanging a high five with Morgan. "So this is the place with the thing, right?"

"Emily, it's me. Of course it's the place with the thing."

She seemed silenced by awe.

"What's 'the thing?'" he asked.

"The drinks are free; you only have to pay for entrance in advance. Reservation only," Morgan said. Reid didn't think that was anything special. He could get free drinks at home, too. "Plus, live band and dance-floor."

"I've been itching to go out dancing," Emily added. He looked at her, surprised. She'd never mentioned that.

"I'm glad I'm not the only one."

They all turned and saw JJ approaching, her lips set in her usual ironic smile. "I love Henry, but, a night out sounds like _heaven_ right now."

"If you ever want to go out with Will, Garcia and I are always willing to babysit," Reid said. And he meant it. He didn't like the idea that JJ was tired. She smiled at him, but said nothing.

After the day was over and he and Emily were alone on her couch (they ended up there most evenings, sometimes drinking coffee and talking, sometimes…well, the term was 'making out', but it was too ugly a phrase for something he found so… Anyway he didn't like to think of it like that.), he asked her if she really wanted to go. She seemed surprised.

"Yeah, of course I do. Don't you?"

"I'm undecided."

"Well no offence honey, but I think you've been signed up."

His skin prickled at the word 'honey', but in a good way, like he'd just been hit with a pleasant breeze. Emily had the uncanny ability to cause notable physical reactions in him with infinitesimally small actions. He hoped he did the same for her, though he wasn't sure he was capable of it. He wasn't as sensual as her, and he'd feel like an idiot if he tried to be.

"I don't club."

"Have you ever _tried_?"

The closest thing he'd ever had to a true clubbing experience was that time when Morgan tried to teach him 'game.' He didn't want to talk about that to Emily, though. "No."

"Well, maybe you'll like it."

"Do you think I will? Honestly?"

She gave him a side-grin, as if she'd been caught out. "No. Not at all."

"Great. Awesome."

"_But_," she said. "I don't think it will matter all that much. One," she raised a finger. "you're going with the whole team, plus Kevin and Will, so you'll be surrounded by people you already like to be around. Two," she made a peace sign. "it's not like you're trying to pick anyone up, so there's that stress gone. And three," she dropped her hand and smiled. "I'll make sure you enjoy yourself. Scout's honour."

"You were never a scout."

"That's not really the point of scout's honour."

"Wait, enjoy myself how?"

She only continued to grin, as if to say 'You'll see.'

He sat in silence for awhile after that, trying to puzzle out what she was looking so cheeky about, when suddenly her lips were on his. They caught him completely by surprise, and he made an embarrassing yip sound when it happened. He felt her smile, and the kiss became deeper. It was odd because he detected no build-up prior, and in his admittedly laughable experience these things usually required build-up. Unless he was just terrible at detecting things, or at least at detecting sexual tension, which was probably something he should work on if he wanted to contribute anything at all to this relationship.

When it was over her dark eyes were burning like a pair of coals, fixing him with a stare so intense he could almost feel it pinning him to the spot. He stared back at her, and thought, 'nobody's ever looked at me like that.' The very faint sound of her breath accentuated the effect, the way a small breeze fans flames.

"What did I do?" he asked. He should have said, what did I do to deserve something so wonderful and unexpected, but that was too many syllables for him right now. It sounded very petulant. She laughed under her breath, and broke that paralyzing stare.

"Nothing. You just looked like you were deep in thought."

That didn't make sense. He'd been deep in thought more times than even he could count, and nobody had ever been overcome with desire before. Though perhaps this was just a sign that they were well-suited to each other; he liked that idea, and decided to make this his explanation.

She gave him another kiss –a smaller one, less needy and less aggressive, but equally pleasurable for him—and then they continued talking. Not as if nothing had happened, but as if the kiss had been a doorway to warmer, more intimate conversation.

When he got home that evening (later than he should have done, but what can you do?), he realized that somebody HAD looked at him like that. Lila had, years ago, in her pool when all he could taste was chlorine and cigarettes. But that hadn't been quite the same. Lila's look reminded him of a shark, all glassy and hungry and mindless. Emily's was different. For one thing, it didn't scare him at all.

Quite the opposite, actually.

XxXxX

On the Friday before the big outing, a strange thing happened. The team was all standing together around Morgan's desk –even Rossi, JJ and Hotch—discussing their plans. Even Reid began to look forward to it. Then Garcia, who was normally a chatterbox, stopped speaking abruptly, staring at something over Rossi's shoulder. One by one everyone turned to see what she was looking at.

Gideon had emerged from his office, which was rare enough in itself; he was also tentatively approaching them, his hands worrying together. He couldn't seem to hold eye-contact with anyone. That was strange as well; normally Gideon was bold enough to stare anyone down. Now he seemed positively meek.

Hotch, all business, was the first to speak: "Is something wrong, Jason?"

The older agent shook his head.

"Then what do you need?"

If there was one thing Reid admired about his leader, it was his ability to always be professional. If it had been HIM speaking, the words would have sounded clipped and dismissive, as if preceded by, 'Oh, _you_.' Hotch didn't sound like he wanted to be rid of Gideon; he sounded like he genuinely wanted to be helpful. But still Gideon shook his head.

"I wanted to ask something," he said finally.

The team was all looking at each other now. And at him, he knew, though he refused to look back at them. Hotch seemed oblivious, "What was it?"

"I was….wondering…" The words seemed very difficult for him. "If I could…join you?"

"Join us?"

"You all are getting together this weekend. I would like to…get to know you all again, since we're working together. Would you mind if I were to join you?"

There was a long silence. Reid looked at Emily, and saw a quiet stoniness in her expression. He found it comforting to know he wasn't the only one who was unimpressed with this development. Strangely, Rossi had the exact same set to his mouth. He understood why Emily would care, since she knew his feelings on the matter, but why would Rossi?

"You're more then welcome, Jason, if you want to come."

Wait, what?

Those words had been said by Hotch –stupid, stupid professional Hotch. Gideon didn't smile, or even react to the acceptance. He just stood there and kept worrying his hands. Eventually he turned and went back to his office, leaving the bewildered team staring after him.

"What do you think happened to him?" JJ asked suddenly. They all knew she didn't mean in the last few days.

There were general murmurs in response, but Reid was silent. The idea that something must have happened to his old mentor to make him this way was a new one. He'd never been able to think of Gideon as a passive figure; things happened because of him, but never TO him. But that of course was illogical thinking, because he was human, and no human is immune to chance and misfortune. It wasn't just Sarah's murder, either. Sarah's murder was the 'happened to him' (or, more accurately, to her) that made him leave. Had something similar been the cause of his return? He couldn't imagine.

Gradually the team fell back into their conversation about the weekend, though the pace and excitement was considerably lowered. It wasn't that they were put out, exactly, but it was in the same neighbourhood. Too quickly for anyone to notice, Emily gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. That, somehow, made it better, and he rejoined the discussion with the added surprise that he was still looking forward to Saturday.

XxXxX

"Is she dating both of them?"

Emily choked on her drink; Jason Gideon had snuck up on her. It wasn't that she hadn't heard him coming –though the bass was pounding loud enough to drown out even the heaviest man's footsteps—but rather that he was speaking to her at all. An emotional sneak-attack. She turned on her bar-stool and faced him, trying not to come off as too defiant, which was hard when you were dressed in your best sexy-night-out clothes and stilettos that looked designed to kill. "Is who dating both of who?"

"The tech girl—Garcia," he said the name as if he'd only just remembered it, and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the dance floor. Emily looked; Garcia seemed to be sandwiched between Morgan and Kevin in some bizarre, rhythmic version of monkey-in-the-middle. She spent significantly more time with Kevin, and closer to Kevin, but to the untrained eye…

"Her and Morgan are just friends," she said. "She just likes to, um, enjoy herself."

Gideon's eyebrows knitted together, and he looked at the trio as if he couldn't figure out what any of it had to do with 'enjoying one's self'. She had the sinking feeling he felt that way about a lot of what the group was doing tonight.

The team was spread out all over the club, but from high on her stool Emily could see them all and their various doings; JJ was dominating the dart-board, as per usual, with a passive but happy Will at her side, watching as if her every movement were of extraordinary interest. Hotch and Rossi were seemingly nailed to the bar, and though she saw them drinking their glasses never got any emptier (this phenomenon was probably due to the particularly attentive bartender, a young woman who recognized Rossi and asked for his autograph the moment they'd walked in). Reid was sitting next to her at one of the elevated tables and, perplexingly, reading a book. Bringing entertainment to a place designed to entertain was a wonderful piece of social daftness that she couldn't help but admire, even as the wait staff glared at them over the perceived insult. The book was _Robots and Empire _by Isaac Asimov.

"Do you like Isaac Asimov?" she'd asked on the drive over.

"My dad introduced me to him when I was five," he said without looking up. "Some of his sociological observations are spot-on, and the characters are entertaining."

"Wow, reading Asimov at five. Bet your mom was proud."

"Actually she thought he was too low-brow for me. Not enough technical skill. She wanted me to read James Joyce. On my sixth birthday I got both _I, Robot_ and _Dubliners._ That may have been one of their first disagreements about me."

"Oh," she said. "I like _Dubliners_."

He looked at her then, visibly pleased. "Which story do you like best?"

"'_The Dead.'_"

"Widely considered to be one of the greatest short stories of all time!"

They talked literature the rest of the drive, but it was too loud in the club for discussion. She wondered if Reid even noticed Gideon coming up to speak to her. Somehow she doubted it…she knew how deep his 'trances' could get.

Gideon, meanwhile, had vanished into the back of the club again. She knew there were large comfy chairs back there, and that the wait staff delivered drinks on command, so this was no doubt where he was spending his evening. So much for 're-getting-to-know-everyone.'

Then again, she wasn't exactly the picture of a social butterfly tonight either.

"Spencer, I think you should put the book away."

Nothing. Quickly checking if anyone she knew was watching –they weren't—she darted her hand under the table and gave his knee a squeeze. To her surprise, he wasn't startled –he merely looked up, a small content smile on his face, as if he were the luckiest guy in the world to be interrupted.

"Hi hon," she said under her breath, knowing he could read her lips.

"Hi," he said. "I'm glad we decided to come. I'm enjoying myself."

She forced herself not to laugh. Apparently, the concept of a club was entirely lost on her boyfriend. No matter. She could educate him.

"Let's go dance."

He blinked…once….twice…then realization and horror seemed to dawn on him. She was quick to add, "Nobody will think anything…friends dance together all the time. Look at Garcia and Morgan."

He did look, and re-faced her more apprehensive than ever. Okay, so maybe that was a bad example.

"Just follow my lead," she said, sliding down from her high stool, and beginning towards the dance floor. A few moments later she felt Reid following her.

"Well look who's finally joining the party!" Morgan said –and then his eyes caught Reid, and even he couldn't hide his shock. "And Pretty Boy too? You feeling alright kid?"

"I knew there was a party animal in there, all along!" Garcia said, sashaying over with Kevin in tow. "A really small, fuzzy, but wild animal!"

"Too much information, Penelope," Kevin said.

She'd hoped they wouldn't flood them like this, but she could see now that it was inevitable. The team dynamic was too strong, and in this particular instance it worked against her. How was she supposed to get Reid to let loose and enjoy himself when everyone's eyes were on them? More importantly, how were they supposed to let loose TOGETHER with everyone's eyes on them?

Luckily, though, it didn't turn out to be much of a problem. Almost immediately after they were done poking fun –though it must be said they spent a fair amount of time poking fun—the trio seemed to get lost in the music. Emily turned to Reid.

"Just do what I do," she said, and began moving her body in time with the rhythm. It was a good beat, too, the kind she might actually listen to outside of a club (which was a great compliment to any song, she thought). Reid watched her—and suddenly turned rather red.

"What is it?"

"You um…" he shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

What…?

Oh.

Well, that was a nice ego boost.

"I have to move like that?" he asked, apparently setting his mind on the task at hand. His expression was identical to the one he wore during difficult cases. Ah, well.

"Well yes, mostly. Except maybe a bit less feminine."

"Feminine and masculine are arbitrary labels."

"Trust me Spencer, not at a dance club."

Reluctantly, he began to mimic her. He wasn't good at it. Where her body swayed, his jerked, and where her fist pumped the air, his engaged in some jazz-hand-like spasm. It was lucky that he happened to be a super-genius, because he was not built for the physical world; his lean frame, which looked so natural slouched over a text, was too long and gangly to have any sort of grace. And, yes, his dancing was feminine. His eyes were fixed on her, darting around her body. She realized he wasn't admiring, but studying; his lips moved as he watched. Who he should really have been looking at was Morgan –who was currently dancing circles around poor, flustered Kevin—but this would never occur to him.

Yet for all that, she didn't mind. So he couldn't dance –he could do a lot of things mathematicians needed super computers for. So she smiled, and he smiled back, and then she laughed, not at him, then he seemed to laugh at himself, and it all got better from there.

Eventually Morgan and the other two insinuated themselves amongst them, and they became a group. Kevin and Garcia traded outdated dance-moves (everything from disco to carameldansen), and Morgan stole Emily for a song (she made sure not to get too close, for Reid's comfort). It was a long time before there was a slow song.

"Holy shit, I _love_ this number," Garcia said, stopping mid-Macarena.

Kevin sprung into action, bowing before her with his hand extended. "May I have this dance?"

"You may," she replied, and they ventured hand-in-hand into the crowd.

"Emily?" Morgan asked with a slight rise of his eyebrows. It took her a moment to realize he was asking her to dance.

"Oh! Um, sorry, Reid actually already asked me," she lied.

"Did he now?" he looked at Reid curiously, and then smirked. "Keep your hands to yourself Prettyboy. No mackin' on coworkers."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," he said. When Morgan left they both allowed themselves a good chuckle, and then drifted into each others arms.

"Not too close. We don't want to be suspicious."

"Okay," he said. "I guess that means you'll have to dance with Morgan sometime tonight, though." There was a jealous tint to his voice. She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked him in the eyes.

"Tell you what. This'll be our last dance, and I'll just tell Morgan I'm tired. So let's make this one count."

"Okay," He had a flush across his nose. "Thanks."

It felt strange, but good, to be like this in public. The song was a love ballad, too sappy for her taste, but perfect for the moment. Reid smelled like cologne and aftershave and fresh laundry. He was warm. And she was happy.

Over his shoulder she saw Garcia and Kevin. Her head was on his shoulder, and his chin was perched on the top of her head. Both their eyes were closed. With a sudden longing she wished she could be like them; THEY were having an office romance and nobody seemed to mind. She knew it was different, because it wasn't like they were working TOGETHER, but the bitter envy remained. She wanted to be that close with her boyfriend –to be pressed up against him like Garcia was with Kevin. The space between her and Reid seemed cavernous. She wanted to close her eyes and just _feel._

But she couldn't. She would resist, for him, because his happiness was more important than her longing. And he needed the BAU to be happy. And so they danced at arms width, no matter how much she wished otherwise.

There were also a few couples who were just being total horndogs, and she thought, she wouldn't mind some of that either.

XxXxX

After the slow song ended, they took their leave of the dance floor, leaving the trio to resume their shenanigans. The rest of the team –even Gideon—had gathered round one of the elevated tables. JJ and Will were just returning; apparently they'd slow-danced as well, though Emily hadn't noticed them. Each of them had a drink in hand. They were all smiling.

"Spence!" JJ cried when she saw them approach. "You just reminded me, I have something to show you—Is Garcia with you?"

"No."

"Uh huh. Guess she's _busy_. C'mere anyway." The media liaison was digging around in her purse now. Reid approached, and Emily found herself following out of curiosity. She rarely saw JJ so relaxed. Will, at her side, seemed to be revelling in it.

"Aha! Here it is," she pulled out a silver digital camera, and suddenly Emily understood. "I have new pictures of Henry for you to see."

"That's great!" He huddled up to her to get a closer look, seeming genuinely excited. Emily remembered his apprehension of JJ's baby bump and smiled to herself.

Hotch and Rossi and Will were huddling in too, and Emily was moving to join them –when she felt a tug on her sleeve. It felt exactly like the tug of a demanding child. She turned, and was faced for the second time that night with Gideon.

"I need to talk to you." he said. Not, hey, can we talk, or hey, can I ask some advice? In his mind, she'd already agreed to this discussion. "Let's go over there."

She wasn't entirely sure why she followed him. Perhaps because he was Gideon, and Gideon was a mystery, and her business was solving mysteries. Perhaps because when she looked back at her boyfriend she saw he was happy with JJ and the images of Henry, and she wasn't quite invited to that part of his life yet. Whatever the reason, she soon found herself standing in the very back of the club, far away from the live band and the bar and the team. Once she was there she stayed silent, and waited for him to start whatever this was.

"You and Reid have grown very close," he started.

Oh shit.

"—I can tell just from watching you two—."

This could not be happening.

"—that he considers you a very dear friend."

Wait. Maybe not oh shit.

"We are very close friends," she said after a long silence (in which he worried his hands and stared at the floor).

He let out a long sigh, and on his breath she realized he'd been drinking quite a lot. In fact (and how had she not noticed this before), he was actually somewhat drunk. She couldn't ever remember seeing him drunk before, or even tipsy. It seemed so wrong, so out of character. So…unnecessary.

"Gideon, you can't drive home like this."

"I'll get a cab," he said, unashamed. "But first you have to tell me how you do it."

If she hadn't realized he was under the influence before, she definitely would have now. The question carried more earnestness than it could bear, but he didn't seem to realize. He just waited for his answer.

This was too much.

"You want Reid to be your friend again?"

"I want it to be like before."

"Then treat him like a freaking adult."

He seemed puzzled.

"Look, Jason, just talk to him. Just do it. And when you do, answer any question he asks with the truth. Okay? I can't guarantee he'll want to trade BFF bracelets with you, but it's the right thing to do. So get off your ass and stop moping that you lost your favourite yes-man, okay?" she exhaled loudly. "And while you're at it, stop trying to steal his job. That may help."

"He'll thank me in time."

"No Jason, he really wont."

He was silent for so long that she thought maybe he was done. Then he muttered something under his breath, too quiet for her to hear. She asked to repeat it, more gently.

"But I'm ashamed."

She sighed. "We all have things to be ashamed of. Everyone on this team. Everyone in this room, even. It doesn't make you special. Just….get the hell over yourself."

And with that she left him, fixing her eyes on the table where her smiling lover was oblivious to all of this.

XxXxX

She drove Reid back to her house afterwards. The trip was silent, but in a pleasant way. She hadn't brought up Gideon yet, though she knew he knew they'd spoken. It would come up at home, probably.

They pulled into her driveway, and she cut the engine. For a moment they just sat.

"So," she said. "How was your first real clubbing experience?"

"Surprisingly painless."

She laughed, "Glad to hear it."

"Thanks for bringing me."

"Not a problem." She leaned over to kiss him, and he leaned as well, eager. They met somewhere in the middle. The kiss was a good one. His lips weren't too dry, weren't too wet, and there was something about the way they were moving against hers at that moment that made every ounce of tiredness evacuate her body. Her hands held the sides of his face and held him there; he didn't seem to mind.

Briefly one of her hands left him, and fumbled for her seatbelt. It came undone with a click and she slid across her seat, closer to him, her knees draped across his lap. Her lips left his mouth and travelled from his cheek, to his jaw, down his neck, to his collarbone…He whimpered and she couldn't help but smile against his skin. Clubbing was fun but _damn_, this was better.

"Should we really be doing this in your car?" he asked, voice several octaves higher than normal.

"I don't know," she said. "Should we?"

Another whimper. She loved that sound. She made a mental note to from now on put every effort into making him make that sound on a regular basis.

Drawing herself closer to him –and she was practically already in his lap—she made her way down the other side of his neck and, hesitating for only just a second, flicked out her tongue against his skin. That time, he gasped.

"Mmm," she said. "What would you say if I told you I wanted you?"

He jumped so hard she nearly fell out of his lap; she jerked her head away from the shriek. She stared at him, stunned; he stared back, blinking rapidly. After a few moments he rubbed his face with both hands, hard, then looked back at her. "Sorry, sorry. Over-reaction. Um. You mean like…sex, right?"

"Well…yeah." Did he think she meant something else?

Then she realized, and she felt hideously stupid, but he said it before she could tell him he didn't need to.

"It's just I…well, Emily, I've never…" he trailed off awkwardly. "You know I've never dated anyone so I figured you would have…guessed."

"It didn't occur to me," she lied. It had, in fact, occurred to her many times. She just happened to forget while actively trying to seduce the poor man. Idly she wondered if she should still be sitting in his lap, especially since she was being poked in the leg by a hard something she felt sure Reid was trying to ignore. She stayed put anyway. "Would you rather wait, then?"

He looked away.

"What's wrong?"

Silence.

Jesus, she'd really managed to screw this up. "Spencer, talk to me."

Very quietly: "You must think I'm a freak."

Now it was her turn to start. "_What?"_ He jumped again and stared at her, bewildered. "Why in the world would I ever think that?"

"Emily, I'm in my late twenties."

"What does that have to do with it? You also graduated High School at _twelve._ You were a little kid when everyone else was probably screwing around. You never…never really got to be a teenager, so it makes sense that…"

"Everything you just said basically makes me a freak," he said miserably.

"_No._ You should be proud of it. I mean it."

He sat limply in his chair, staring up at her, entirely unconvinced.

She sighed.

"Babe, listen," she said. "You are not a freak. If anything, I'm the freak."

"No you're no-."

"I had sex for the first time when I was fourteen," she said bluntly. "It was at a party, and I didn't even like the guy, but I liked his friends and wanted to be one of them. There's so much wrong with that. It still makes me sick. But there is nothing wrong with you. You hear me?" She kissed him on the forehead. "Nothing."

"I'm sorry," he said. Then, after a beat. "And I'm also sorry for, er, killing the mood."

"It's no problem. There will be other nights for moods. Better nights. If you want, that is."

He smiled. "Yes. Just…not now. I'm still barely used to just this. Besides, I'd kinda like to savour it."

"I'd like to as well." She'd savour it for years, if she had to. If that's what he needed.

"For now," he added quickly. "But maybe in like, a few weeks?"

"Oh thank God," she muttered. He said what and she said nothing, and then she invited him in. He ended up staying over; they both fell asleep on the couch, curled up together. Before she drifted off she mused that one day she'd have to tell him the full truth about that guy and that party and her fifteenth year.

But not tonight…

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: Haha, so that was awkward. And there`s more awkwardness to come, because I don`t DO they-are-magically-Gods-in-bed stuff. Even if both of them were experienced and gave their past partners ten thousand orgasms, that doesn`t mean they will automatically know what the other one will like. And since my version of Reid is a total virgin, well…_

_Reviews make the hills come alive with the sound of lemons…I mean music!_

IMPORTANT: I will not be updating this week (The week of Nov 22), I'm afraid. I'm in the crunchtime of both school finals, and NaNoWriMo, and I'm afraid this story must take a very brief backseat. Apologies!


	16. Chapter 16 Part 1: Almost

**XxXxX**

**Chapter Sixteen Part 1: Almost**

**XxXxX**

The sound of sirens overpowered the white noise of the streets –Emily's stomach lurched as Morgan skidded around a corner. The tires made a horrible screech; she imagined she could smell burning rubber. The traffic surged around and away from them, horns blaring –their man was going into the heart of the city. The chase would not last much longer.

"Shit, we're going to lose him!" Morgan growled between his teeth.

"The traffic's too thick; he'll panic and get out on foot eventually."

"IF he doesn't crash into somebody first," her partner snarled. His fists attacked the steering wheel as they came to another turn. The unsub's car was in sight, but only just barely. "This is messed –where are our guys?"

Hotch's number was dialled on her phone in less than a second. He picked up in two.

"Hotchner."

"It's Emily. We've got to close off the streets, fast, he has way too much freedom out here."

"You can't close off New York. It's impossible."

"Well then he's going to just drive –wait!"

Far ahead, even ahead of the unsub, a squad car had just rounded into view. It was moving fast, taking advantage of the evasive traffic. It was going to cut off the exit point.

"Hotch, please tell me that's you."

"Who? What's going on?"

"Emily, look!" Morgan hit the breaks; she was flung forward, her chest hitting her seatbelt like it was made of steel cable, and then shoved back into her seat. The air that had been forced out of her lungs flooded them again with a horrible wheezing gasp—for a split second the world was white. Then the colour came back, and the shapes, and the first thing she saw was the unsub's car in the middle of an intersection, the driver door hanging open. She'd been right. He was panicking.

"Go!" she yelled, but Morgan was already out of the car.

"Emily—.' Hotch was still on the line.

"He's trying to escape on foot. Some cops are trying to force his hand. There are a lot of people here."

"Move quickly," her boss ordered. She hung up and was out the door.

Their guy was armed. He was running around the intersection, waving a handgun, trying to rouse the terrified drivers to make way for him. It would only be minutes before everyone behind a wheel would lose their steel and hit the gas, crushing those in the intersection (and maybe even a few in cars. The tiny two-door types wouldn't stand against the SUVs, not at full speed). Emily, being one of those fragile people caught in the middle, could hardly breathe under the weight of limited time. More squad cars were approaching the scene (if the semi-distant sirens were anything to go by), and soon the street would be flooded with cops. But their guns were useless; in such a small place packed with so many people, even a single miss-aimed bullet {0would spell disaster.

If Morgan could just get to him in time-!

But the unsub –a skinny, red-haired guy in his thirties—saw him coming, and the handgun jumped to attention. "DON'T MOVE!" he roared.

Morgan skid to a stop, hands held up in surrender. The unsub's gun was trained on him like an unblinking eye, and her partner could only stare back, too out of breath to speak. The man smirked. He cocked the gun sideways, like in a gangster flick; Emily knew from her own firearms training that this made it nearly impossible to aim properly. If he shot, the bullet could hit anybody. They couldn't let that happen.

Coming up from behind Morgan, she took out her own weapon and aimed for their attacker's head. She couldn't shoot, but she could bluff.

"Drop your weapon!" she called. The unsub finally seemed to notice her –his eyes widened in surprise, but the smirk was frozen on his face. The handgun jittered between her and Morgan. She tried to ignore it. "You are surrounded by the FBI!"

She knew the bluff wasn't working even before she finished making it. With that same superior grin: "Or you'll _what?_ Knock down the first domino?"

That was exactly the problem. They'd walked right into what was basically a collection of dominoes. Knock down one, knock down the rest. And he knew it. It was why he'd stopped panicking.

Right in front of them –and without taking the gun off Morgan—he began to walk backwards toward the shuddering crowd of cars. Horns sounded with each step he took, the drivers protesting the approach of an armed maniac.

"STOP!" she ordered. "Stay where you are!"

But he only grinned. A silent repetition, 'or you'll _what?_' In the past, unsubs had put off arrest by holding a victim hostage; this particular unsub had managed to take an entire street prisoner.

"Aw, are Mr. and Mrs. FBI worried? I sure ain't." He took another step back, and then they began to hear engines revving. They'd all be so many red stains on the asphalt if something didn't happen soon.

Then, something happened.

The squad car that caused all this –the one that cut off the exit—had stopped somewhere behind the shield of cars. She would have forgotten it, if she hadn't suddenly noticed a small group of cops running on foot through the lanes. They were behind the unsub, their footsteps masked by the chaos, guns drawn and visors lowered. That is, all but one, who wore no helmet, and ran with an inappropriate skip. His bullet-proof vest read 'FBI'…

'_No!' _her thoughts screamed. _'He's supposed to be at the station! He can't be here!'_

But he was. Spencer Reid was ducking through the traffic, climbing over the hoods of cars with a small group of local cops. In the midst of a nearly panicking crowd of drivers. His eyes, wide and fearful, were fixed on her face.

She looked away, quickly. If the unsub saw her staring over his shoulder, he would look too, and he'd fire into the cars towards the cops, and…

Morgan was still standing, hands up, every inch of his body shaking. Not with fear but with effort; she knew he was using all of his willpower just to remain still, to do nothing. It took her a few seconds to realize she was shaking too. The difference was she WAS shaking with fear. Fear for herself and Morgan. Fear for all the people around them. But, most pressingly (and possibly least ethically, considering there were no doubt children in some of these vehicles), fear for Reid.

The other cops had arrived; scores of them entered the intersection, all with weapons pointed at the unsub. His grin was less confident now.

"We need crowd control!" she called, and some of the officers nodded and moved closer to the traffic, hands out. Then, to the unsub, "This is your last warning. Drop. The. Gun."

He didn't. Instead he turned on his heel and ran straight into the cars behind him.

"DON'T SHOOT!" Morgan yelled to the cops, and lunged forward. But he wasn't fast enough. The guy was already deep into the mess, and the confusion within was enough to mask his escape—

But then, she saw Reid. He was clambering onto the roof of a car; he stood up on it, and she thought, '_STOP! You have no cover! You'll get shot!'_ right before he leaped off, onto the unsub, slamming him into the side of a pickup truck. The two men crumpled, and were out of sight.

"Reid!" Her and Morgan were running forward, dreading the inevitable sound of gunfire.

It didn't come. The cars stayed put –though many honked their horns—and no shots were fired. The cops, the ones that weren't trying to comfort scared pedestrians, were all coming together at the scene of Reid's miraculous leap. Emily tried to keep up, but her heart was hammering too hard to run, and sweat kept running into her eyes from drenched hair. She'd only just realized what a mess she was, how torn apart she was by the possibility—

Then she saw him.

When he'd thrown himself at the retreating unsub, he didn't manage to knock the guy out, and he wasn't heavy enough to hold him down. He'd only been momentarily stunned—and then he'd thrashed like a great white shark pulled aboard a tiny boat. If it had just been the two of them, Reid would have been killed. As it was, three cops descended on them quick enough to yank the agent and the killer apart, one dazed and limp, the other filled with mindless rage. Their man was caught, cuffed, and thrown into one of the squad cars. Reid was gently made to sit on the closest curb. He'd limped the entire way. Emily arrived just as he was being led off, hopping towards the sidewalk with his head hanging against his chest. She heard the explanation when Morgan demanded it from the nearest officer.

"Aw shit," Morgan said, panting. His face, too, was lined with sweat. Emily only exhaled loudly in response, and then they set off towards their team-member. Every step Emily wanted to break into a run, but she knew that if she let herself she would run to him and kiss him and not care who saw. Couldn't happen. The job meant too much. So she walked, and the trip seemed too far. On the job she always felt far from him, no matter how close he was.

"Reid," Morgan said as soon as they were close enough for him to hear. "That was a hell of a stupid thing you just did there."

Her boyfriend nodded, gulping down air with his eyes closed. "I won't do it again…your job, anyway."

"I just can't believe it actually worked," said a wide-eyed young paramedic at his side. "I mean, look at him. You'd think it'd be like getting hit with a plastic bag in the wind."

"This man has a huge talent for surprising people," she said. Reid's eyes opened, saw her, and suddenly they were filled with water.

"What is it?" asked the paramedic, startled. "What hurts?"

"My leg," he muttered. But he didn't look away from her face.

**XxXxX**

It turned out he wasn't lying about his leg. He had an angry bruise covering his entire left kneecap. But that was the only injury; he was poked and prodded incessantly, had his eyes checked for a concussion, and was asked if he was in pain enough times to make him start to lose his temper. Finally, he was pronounced more or less unscathed, and he was allowed to continue working without interruption. But he had to get at least one good night of sleep; the doctor recommended they spend one more night in New York, as opposed to jumping right back on the jet. Hotch agreed immediately, and Emily knew why. Taking one extra day away from home was well-worth a team-member's ability to function. And they were all just happy everything worked out so well. They knew perhaps better than anyone that that day could have ended much, much worse.

**XxXxX**

It was already one in the morning when she knocked on his hotel room door. She hadn't been able to sleep, and she had a hunch (though of course she wasn't positive, which was why she'd been debating this visit in her room for over forty five minutes before) that he wouldn't be able to either. It was to her immense relief that she heard his voice before she even had to knock a second time.

"Come in!" he called. He DID sound a bit groggy though, so maybe she shouldn't stay too long…

The door wasn't locked (perhaps he knew she would come?), so she let herself in, and closed the door gently behind her with a click. The rest of the team was situated on the other side of the hall (except for Rossi, but he slept like a rock), so there wasn't much need to be quiet, but habit spoke louder than reason. Reid's room was nearly identical to her own; modern, crisp, and with more black and silver than she cared to see in one room. Still, the view was nice, even if the roads next to the building were a little too loud. It was one of those streets covered with restaurants, and the designs and colours on all the signs were enough to make her hungry just looking down from her window. All this she could see from the door way, and all of it was highlighted by the silhouette of Reid sitting up in his bed. From there he was just a featureless black shape, so it wasn't until she got closer that she realized he wasn't wearing a shirt.

"Oh, sorry," she said, turning around. "I didn't realize you were—."

Probably already in bed trying to get some sleep, of course. What was she thinking, just turning up in the middle of the night? And when he was supposed to be resting—on Doctor's orders—

"It's okay, I don't mind," he said. "I'm wearing pants, if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh." She turned back around again, feeling a bit foolish for her over reaction. But the truth was she didn't quite know how to act around him about things like this –about privacy and…_clothing_, or lack thereof. After his reaction to her advances in that car the other week, she thought to be anything but conservative might make him uncomfortable.

But he seemed to notice her newfound skittishness with the subject, and to her surprise, he seemed wearied by it. What was she SUPPOSED to do?

After a few moments of placidly watching her fret, he scooted over and patted the space next to him. Not in a suggestive way, but a little awkwardly, as if he just couldn't stand to see her on her feet any longer. She obliged, at first sitting down next to him, then, thinking better of it, lying down with her head on the pillow next to his. She rolled over to look at him, and saw his faint expression of approval.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she said back, kissing him on the tip of his nose. "This is going to sound hypocritical, but why are you still awake?"

"I wanted to see you."

"You knew I'd come?"

"Yeah."

So it was as she'd thought. "I couldn't sleep. I think…I think there was just a little too much excitement today."

He smiled. "I agree."

But even as he smiled, he reached for her hand across the covers and held onto it, a little tighter than was comfortable. She didn't acknowledge it, other than to squeeze back; this was the job. There was no sense talking about the danger, or about what they'd both almost lost (and it wasn't just each other), or even about the unsub. Talking about the side-effects of the job –the nightmares, the injuries, the loss of time—that was acceptable, maybe even inevitable. Sometimes it made those things easier to bear. But it was no good talking about the job itself. There was no making it easier.

"How's your leg?" It was the best she could do.

"A little sore, but I'm fine. I could even walk if you asked me to."

"I wouldn't."

"Good, because that would hurt like hell. But I could do it."

"Think it'll be better by tomorrow?"

"I imagine it'll be more ugly than painful after a few days. Besides, we'll probably just do paperwork for the rest of this week. Shouldn't be too strenuous. It takes an average of four days for JJ to select a new case for us."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Only four days. She'd never actually noticed before, but he was right. They only had four days between horrible murders and kidnappings and rapes and all the rest of it, up close and personal. Somehow it had always seemed longer than four days. Surely, sometimes, they had a whole week off to recover?

But no. She knew there were days when they didn't even have three days –or two –or even one. Sometimes they worked two cases back to back in the same city, though that was only on extremely rare occasions (she was no Reid, but even she knew the likelihood of finding two active serial killers in one small area were exponentially small). But it had happened. More than once, in just the time she'd been working there.

She knew that sometimes a chain of thought was only going to lead to dark places. She knew because she was normally a master at grasping that chain and tossing it away, trail un-followed. But this time the links were just coming together too quickly, and so she couldn't stop herself.

How soon until their next case came in? Until a plea arrived on JJ's desk that just couldn't wait? They'd been lucky this time, but how many more times could they be lucky? Say a new case arrived every four days, and say it took three days to solve each one. That was a week per case. With just over fifty-two weeks in a year, that makes a loose average of fifty-two cases per year. In just the past few months she'd been in a life or death situation three times. So far she was consistently rolling life, but fifty/fifty wasn't great odds.

And what about Reid? Reid who had, just hours before, thrown himself at an armed killer in the middle of what could very well have turned into a street riot. What if they got their next case in the next two days? Wouldn't he then have to rise from behind his safe, restful desk and limp towards the jet, towards yet another life or death gamble?

Perhaps it was all just fear and tiredness and melodrama speaking, but these things seemed very real to her in the dark of the early morning. She thought about those fifty-two cases a year (perhaps fifty two cases a year for the rest of her working life, and THAT was if she was LUCKY) and felt as if she were being smothered by the weight of them all.

She felt a small kiss on her brow, and looked up. A pair of brown eyes looked back, filled with worry and sympathy. She wondered if he knew what she was thinking about, then decided that no, he didn't. But he knew something was wrong, and he also probably knew that it had something to do with worry for him. Then he spoke, and her suspicions were confirmed.

"It's just a bruise," he said. "Nothing to worry about."

"The bruise is nothing to worry about, sure," she said. "It's the future that's got me nervous."

His brows knitted together. His thoughts were evident on his face – 'the future' was such a vague term that he was trying to figure out exactly what she was referring to. Them, the job, or both? Or some other un-mentioned variation?

"It's just, you know," she wasn't supposed to talk about the job. It wouldn't help. But here she went anyway. "It could have been more than a bruise."

His face smoothed with understanding. He rolled closer to her, so that the tips of their noses were nearly touching. She could feel his knee against hers and tried to make sure to lay extra still, so as not to rub against it and hurt him. It felt odd to be so utterly passive when his lips pressed against hers; generally speaking, it was her who took charge in these situations. She lifted her hand and rested it against his cheek, allowing him to make the kiss deeper, to let it linger. As if on cue, his hands wandered onto her, but didn't stay anywhere particularly long. Not that she minded.

With a small sigh, she pulled away long enough to plant a single, smaller kiss –the signal that it was time to stop—and made to relax again on the pillows. Perhaps she'd stay and talk with him for a few minutes, but this was a hotel, and technically they were on duty—

"Hey," he whispered, wiggling closer to her. "Don't go yet."

-aaand she sank back into his arms without hesitation. Ah, well. Self-denial never was one of her strong suits.

With surprising strength, he rolled onto his back, taking her along with him until she found herself straddling his stomach, and then he pulled her back down to meet his lips. His fingers trailed down her back, perhaps a little uncertainly (he'd never done anything like _this_ before), and came to rest at her hips. An awed little thrill went through her, followed by the slightest tinge of sadness; for better or worse, Spencer was a quick study.

For the longest time there was only the sound of each other and the city outside, until, breaking away to trail her lips down his neck, she whispered: "I don't suppose you know how many people a year get fired for this sort of thing?"

"No, I don't. I was afraid to look."

She chuckled, kissing his collarbone on a whim –and then the skin just above his nipple. Then the skin just below. Suddenly intrigued, she moved down to examine his ribcage, feeling the smoothness of the skin. A vulgar part of her brain wanted to claim it because he was untouched, but she suppressed it as best she could –even if the idea was appealing. He had hair on his chest, but it was sparse and light-coloured –and yes, this still felt odd. You'd think after being with him for this long, she would have gotten used to the idea, but here she was: sitting on top of a half-naked Spencer Reid, in bed, feeling up said half-naked body, and she was all too aware of who exactly this man was. Who he'd been when she first met him, who he was now, everything in between. She ran her hands over his chest, more out a sense of exploration than any attempt to titillate –and then ducked to kiss his belly, too.

He sighed –a long, ragged sound that she'd be replaying in her head for a few nights to come—and then he tapped her shoulder. She straightened up at once, leaning to hover over his face. His eyes shone brightly up at her –but the rest of his expression was obscured in the gloom.

"What is it?"

His mouth opened, shut again, and she knew what he was going to say before he managed to get up the courage.

"I've been thinking that we could maybe try…um…you know?"

Exactly what she thought. But her heart started hammering anyway.

"Here?"

"Uh, no, not here…that would be…_distinctly_ unprofessional."

She snorted, loudly, and he shot her a slightly annoyed look. But she couldn't help it. Like anything they were doing here was professional.

"Besides," he added, still whispering. "I don't really want to do…that and then have to worry about unsubs and profiles and all that like, twenty four hours later. I'd really rather the two things not be associated."

That she could understand. She released a long stream of air from her lungs –the ragged, breathy sound was not unlike the one he'd made just minutes before- and said:

"So, not now, but…soon?"

"Yeah," he said. "I was actually thinking tomorrow, after we land back in Quantico. It's a Friday, and provided there's no new case…"

He trailed off, raising his eyebrows just slightly, leaving her to fill in the blanks.

"Alright. Yes," she said, and felt him jump a little under her fingers. As if he'd just realized, _no backing out now…_

Then she was kissing him again, with enough ferocity to even surprise herself. He started again, but gave just as good as he got; lust was hitting her like a tidal wave, along with the realization that expressed itself only in a single word: _finally. _Her fingers tangled in his hair, tilting his head up towards her, while _his_ hands roamed with the kind of uninhibited freedom she'd never known of them, and for once it was not just the sounds of _his_ whimpers and _his_ moans between them. When she did break away it was only to catch her breath.

"So what exactly did you have in mind?" she asked, her voice several times huskier then she'd intended it to be.

He didn't answer, instead sitting up suddenly and pushing her onto her back.

'_So much for bed-rest.'_

**XxXxX**

She crept out of his room ten minutes later, with a promise to continue where they'd left off tomorrow evening. Provided, she reminded herself, that there was no new case. If there was, she might end up having to wait another full week. Or perhaps even longer. Still too, she'd long since realized that Spencer had never actually specified what it was he wanted to 'try' –but that could all be sorted out later. For right then, she just tried to get back to her room as quietly as one could with a spring in their step.

**XxXxX **

_A/N: Just to clear up any confusion, they didn't have sex just then. Only a very hot makeout. Yay!_


	17. Chapter 16 Part 2: Testing of the Waters

_A/N: So, here we are again! First of all I apologize for taking so long to update, there really is no excuse. This story will be updated every Tuesday and Friday from now on, and I promise that no further delays will occur. With full confidence!_

_Secondly, this particular chapter is M-Rated, so anybody under the age of 18...stay in school. I also warn that it's not particularly steamy M-Rated stuff...the first time needs to be a little awkward, doesn't it?_

_Thanks to everyone who's still reading, you have no idea how much it means._

**XxXxX**

**Chapter Sixteen Part 2: A Testing of the Waters**

**XxXxX**

"Seriously Reid, are you alright?"

Morgan had asked a thousand times, and Emily had to remind herself that, for once, he wasn't doing it to be irritating. There was actual concern in his voice, and -without knowing what she knew- for good reason; Spencer had been very quiet so far on this jet ride, refusing even to take part in a game of Texas Hold'Em. A quick visual sweep of the plane told her that everyone else was just barely containing similar questions –with the exception of Gideon, who was divvying his attention between the window and a copy of James Joyce's _Ulysses._ Or maybe he was just feigning disinterest. In any case, it seemed that as far as hiding nerves went, she was the far superior of the two.

"I'm fine, Morgan," Reid muttered. He, too, was staring at a book. 'Staring,' not reading, because anyone who knew Reid would be quick to notice that he hadn't turned a page in almost three minutes; well below his usual pace. Privately, she thought Reid and Gideon looked rather alike at this moment, which was not something she would ever admit to her soon-to-be lover out loud.

The 'soon to be lovers' part was what was getting to him, and to her, a little. She really should have asked when she had the chance what it was he actually wanted to DO tonight. It wasn't the only question on her mind: at whose house would this ambiguous act occur? Would it require a condom? Hers were all long expired, and as non-judgmental as she knew Spencer to be, she did NOT want him to know she kept expired condoms just because buying more felt like a waste of money. Did HE have any condoms, and would she be weirded out if he did? Would she be weirded out if he didn't? But these were things that couldn't be brought up for a few hours yet, unless she suddenly felt insane enough to ask them right in front of all their co-workers.

The trouble was she hadn't had a proper sexual relationship in so long that she simply wasn't prepared to go at the drop of a hat anymore. She wasn't even on the pill. Perhaps she should have started preparing as soon as a physical aspect to this whole Spencer thing was introduced, but she hadn't had all that much time. Besides, that small part of her she'd been so aware of last night as she kissed down his body, the part that couldn't believe this was happening with a team-mate, THIS team-mate, had almost suspected things to remain celibate. Crazy, she knew. But weren't geniuses supposed to be above sex and all those sorts of base instincts?

_'Not if last night is anything to go by,_' she thought, taking care to keep her expression blank as she relived the memory. But she couldn't resist catching Reid's eye, and felt a small surge of pride when she saw his pupils immediately dilate in reaction. Apparently their minds were in similar places.

Ah, but he shouldn't make himself so obvious around a group of profilers…Morgan saw his expression and turned to look at her almost at once, searching her face. She plastered on a goofy and shrugged; _'Hey, who gets Reid at the best of times, am I right?_' He turned away. They all knew dilated eyes can indicate attraction, but perhaps he dismissed the idea as too ridiculous. She knew she would have, if she didn't know.

The team would just believe Spencer was shell-shocked over the case, as they all were. Nobody would suspect he was just nervous about getting laid.

The rest of the ride was long and quiet –she tried to start a conversation with Morgan, but he was too distracted by Spencer's apparent distress, which was rather sweet if a tad annoying—and it was past sunset when they finally landed back in Quantico.

"Need any help Reid?" she asked, watching him slowly straighten up out of his chair, and obvious grimace of pain on his face.

"I'm fine."

"Can I at least carry your go bag?"

"No, I got it—."

He slung the heavy bag over his shoulder and began to slink out of the jet, trailing behind everyone else. But he smiled at her –warmly, nervously—as he passed. A few more hours of paperwork and after-case tidying up and then they'd be alone.

_**XxXxX**_

It turned out to be more complicated than any booty-call she'd experienced since High School –back then it was all about hiding from parents, lying about being at the other person's house when you were actually at a motel, trying not to bounce the springs in your bed too loudly. This was disturbingly –and hilariously—similar.

"Prentiss, I need a ride home," Spencer said out of the blue once they got back to their desks. His acting, sorry to say, had still not improved,

"I'll drive you home," Morgan said helpfully, which ironically was extremely unhelpful.

"No I need her to drive me," he blurted out before she could fix the situation. She resisted the urge to slap her forehead.

"Why her in particular?"

"Um…"

"It's because I'm better company, Derek," she quipped, hoping this would settle things. Morgan grinned at her, but then turned back to Reid, unabated. Nuts.

"Ok, but you don't usually need a ride home. What's the matter, boy, subway getting too scary for you?"

For once Spencer did the right thing and just went right back to his work without saying a thing, feigning annoyance at the teasing.

"See? This is why he likes me better, you're always trying to emasculate him," she said. "Compensating for something much?"

"Oh, I did not just hear you say that…"

So that was the issue of driving away together solved. At least as far as Morgan was concerned, who admittedly they had the most contact with, but he was still only one member of the team. When they were walking out together in the parking lot she saw Rossi and Garcia shoot them confused looks.

Confused looks were always better than comprehending looks, however.

"So did you talk to Hotch about the case report?" she asked by way of small-talk.

"A little," he said. "He can't lie for me, but he might be able to spin it so that my taking down of the unsub seems a little more…protocol, I guess we'll say?"

"He WANTS you to stay on, not Gideon."

"I know," he said. He was staring down towards his feet as he walked. He had a distinct limp. "But he can't lie about the effectiveness of Gideon, either."

Then they were in the car and no longer had to talk about work for appearances sake. She checked her watch. It was already a quarter to ten. It was times like these that she longed for a nine to five job. At least pharmacies were usually open twenty four seven.

"Spencer, I need to know something."

"What do you need to-."

"What kind of sex are we having tonight?"

She waited patiently for him to collect himself enough to answer, even though her patience was running a little bit thin after all these hours.

"I didn't really think about it…what kinds are there?"

Like someone asking after flavors of ice cream. Endearing, but this was not the time. She started the engine and pulled out of the parking space, deciding for him that this was going to go down at her place, and he could just spend the night. But they needed to get home before their tiredness got the better of either of them.

"What I'm essentially asking is, do you think I need to stop for condoms on the way there?" She didn't specify what acts would and would not require condoms. She trusted him to know THAT at the very least. Otherwise she'd have to call the whole genius thing into question.

"Oh, well…I don't think so?" It was the sort of question mark that was asking for approval, and was deeply nervous about not getting it. A quick look at his face confirmed this. She realized he probably had no idea he'd left her guessing, and was now probably afraid of disappointing her.

Furthermore, the anxiety he'd been exhibiting on the jet intensified now that they were actually on the way home. If she listened closely, she could actually hear him breathing quite hard and fast. Flashback to when she was fourteen, walking up the stairs with some guy at a party –she didn't even remember his name now—in the same position as Spencer was now. She remembered feeling out of breath, like she wanted to run away, feeling her own pulse, hard and quick, just under her skin. Her stomach had been the worst; she was terrified she was going to throw up on the guy in the middle of it.

The memory was old and half-forgotten, and the pain it inspired was dulled by the years. But it was still pain, and it hadn't always been so easy to take; that was not what she wanted for Spencer. At the very least she could give him good memories. Something he wouldn't look back on and regret.

There was a ways to go until home yet, but she decided the most important question had already been answered, and so did not ask any more. The rest would become apparent soon enough.

_**XxXxX **_

When she finally pulled into her driveway, they sat there together for a few minutes in silence. It was dark except for the streetlights, as she'd left her porch-lights off for the few days she'd be out of town (no sense racking up her hydro bill). She didn't look over at Spencer, and knew he wasn't looking over at her. Her mind wandered back in time, now to the night when she'd tried to seduce him in this very spot, in this very car. How very ill-conceived that was in retrospect. It didn't seem like much seduction was going to happen tonight, now that it came down to it. It seemed that way when she'd been imagining it in her thoughts the night before; she'd imagined herself as the experienced older woman, showing him something he'd only been able to imagine before her. But that wasn't reality, was it? She was no master in bed, although she definitely wasn't bad, and passion wasn't the main goal here. Not tonight. Tonight was to be…a testing of the waters. For both of them.

Once they were inside, she went through the house turning on the lights and appliances she'd shut off for the trip; all the time they were keeping up a conversation, shouting things back and forth to each other across the house in a delightfully familiar way, but she wasn't actually paying much attention to what she was saying. The words –encouraging, friendly, casual, anything but seductive, anything but nervous—came automatically and without thought. In her own mind she was wondering, do we have a coffee first? Unwind? It's getting late…do we even have time to unwind before the jetlag and the stress gets to us?

Would it really be so bad if nothing happened?

Well, no. They'd just reschedule to another time. But she knew she would be disappointed, and she wasn't feeling up to disappointment right now.

Spencer was sitting on her couch when she returned back downstairs to find him, leaning forward with his hands folded between his knees. He wasn't fidgeting, which was a good sign, but he made no sign of moving when she reappeared in the room.

"Do you want a coffee?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Something a little stronger?"

He hesitated, and then shook his head again. They needed a way to get started somehow, but he sure wasn't making it easy.

"And you haven't changed your mind?" She prodded, unsure what she was meant to do.

He looked up, apparently puzzled. "Why would I have changed my mind?"

"You just seem really…" But she trailed off. She didn't want to accuse him of being nervous, because that was perfectly normal. Well, maybe not perfectly normal for an almost thirty-year-old man, but she wasn't going to bring THAT up…

"So you still wanna try?" she asked instead, for clarification.

"Yes, absolutely, that's not even in question…"

"And you don't want a drink or anything first?"

"No."

"Well, then."

And just like that, she knew what needed to be done. She plunked down on the couch next to him and kissed him on the lips, cutting him off mid-sentence. It just had to be started. It was not lust she was feeling so much as relief –she'd really, really worried that he was going to change his mind, was going to call this whole thing off, on account of nerves…or worse, because of work or their friendship or any of those other things that sometimes plagued her when she thought of the suckier aspects of their relationship. But he wanted her, absolutely, not even in question…

It was a long kiss, and he relaxed against her, his words blowing away with a small sigh. The awkwardness of the situation was melting away, ever so slowly. She slid her hands down from where they'd been resting on either side of his face to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against the palm of her hand. In the same motion she pressed him onto his back on the couch, and leaned over him as they'd done so many times before.

Turned out she'd been right about the lack of passion; tenderness, yes, and a certain sense of determination, of course, but passion was entirely absent from this exchange. Didn't matter, there'd be plenty of time for that to be integrated in _later_…

If only she'd known last night it was going to be this tentative! The night before things seemed to flow so naturally into the next thing, as if they knew each other by heart. Now she felt a bit lost in the dark; Spencer was too caught in whatever thought he was holding to give her any clear signals of what to do next. She didn't minded taking things easy, but she wished she could clear his mind for once, let him stop worrying…

After a few minutes of what could only very loosely be called making out, she pushed herself up on her arms and looked down at him. At the very least he seemed to be out of breath in a pleasant sort of way. And there was definitely less rigidness in his body now.

Well.

Without a word, she started undoing the buttons on his shirt. She was very pleased to see him wearing a button-up this morning; they were always sexier to remove than yanking it over the guys head, which was at best faintly ridiculous. He watched her face as she did so, not resisting or helping, lips slightly parted. On the third button she dipped and started to kiss down as she went. A shudder ran through him.

"Sh-shouldn't we move upstairs?" he croaked, arching to press his skin to her lips.

"We can if you want, we don't have to," she said. In truth the idea of doing this on a couch held some appeal, but she couldn't be sure where it stemmed from…

He made no attempt to move, instead only whimpering slightly when she dipped her tongue into his belly-button. Perfect.

She allowed him to sit up wiggle the shirt off his arms, and then he was down again. His skin was just as smooth as it had seemed last night in the darkness of the hotel room, and she ran her hands over it gleefully, chest to belly. He was also remarkably without flaws, with only a few blemishes and a very light spattering of hair; her own body was covered in scars, mostly small but a few big, most notably the newest one across her chest, from Harriet Summer's gunshot…

Her lips trailed over the skin on his belly, his chest, and then up to his neck. She darted out her tongue in one swift lick between his collarbone and his earlobe, and then nibbled on it for good measure. He groaned in response, a low, low sound she wasn't accustomed to. Spencer generally stayed on the squeakier side of things as far as vocalizations went.

"What am I supposed to do with my hands?" he asked suddenly, in a surprisingly steady voice.

"Whatever you want, Spencer," she breathed –her own hands were a little too occupied exploring every inch of exposed skin for her to worry too much about answering questions. But he propped himself up on his elbows underneath her, seemingly unsatisfied with that answer.

"But I want –ah!" she just bit very lightly on one of his nipples, and it took him a few moments to continue… "I want to do whatever you want me to. Tell me what that is."

She gave this serious thought for a few seconds, and then leaned up and kissed him deeply. At first he seemed annoyed by her lack of response, but then he was kissing back just as eagerly, tilting his chin up towards her, questions forgotten.

When she stopped she hovered an inch away from his face and whispered, "Nothing."

He blinked, "Whuh?"

"I don't want you to do anything. I don't need anything from you tonight. Just let me."

It was amazing how very quickly he could turn beat-red, given the right choice of words. "So I'll just…"

"Just lie there and let me do this for you. Please?"

Before he could answer she dove down into another kiss, and this time there was no resistance. His arms came up and around her, holding her there with his surprising grip. Here, at last, was a spark of passion. She swung her leg over his hips to straddle him, purring deep involuntarily when felt his erection through his pants against her. Finally, she would actually be able to do something about that!

Her hand slipped down without even thinking about it to feel him there, and when he gasped against her lips the response was to slip her tongue in-between his.

Their tongues were tangling together, and she could hear strangled moans as her hand stroked, and then she finally released him, descending again to his throat. He leaned his head back to get out of her way, and she noticed that his eyes were closed.

Ah, but now what to do with him now she had him? They had no condoms –at least none that hadn't died over two years ago—so actual sex was out, but there were still options. No sense asking him what he wanted, he'd already said he didn't know.

Well, there was always her hand. And then there was…

Her breath hitched slightly at the thought. An image appeared to her in her minds eye, one that wouldn't normally appeal to her; she hadn't done…that…since her rather disastrous teenage years, and those few times hadn't exactly been marked as great triumphs of her sex life.

But those boys had been pigs, and she had been a stupid girl eager to have them stop pestering her. This was not the same. Spencer was not the same. And the image was burned in her mind, making her feel strangely tingly. The idea of taking him spontaneously, on this couch, and THAT way…

Her hand slid up just few inches from where it had been and began to work at undoing his belt. Turned out this required both hands as well her vision, so she had to actually sit up and watch what she was doing. She glanced between the quickly unfastened belt and his face as she did so; he was sitting up again, watching her hands work with fascination.

"You ok, hon?" she asked gently, even as she yanked the belt out of all the loops in one swift pull. She felt him jump a little under her fingers.

"Yes. I'm ok."

The zipper was pulled undone and his eyes widened. She didn't look away from him as she opened up the front of his pants, exposing his boxers. He lifted his hips helpfully for her, and she hooked her fingers into both sides of his pants and pulled down, boxers and all.

His erection was almost full when it finally came into full view. He was uncircumcised, and the head was mostly free from the ring of tight skin. She noted with faint interest that he apparently kept himself fairly well-groomed; the hair here was course and dark, but not overgrown. He was not noticeably bigger or smaller than any man she'd ever been with before.

The weirdness of it all struck her again full force: she looking at –and touching!—her co-workers naked body. _Reid's_ naked body. Not only that, but she was about to…and _really really_ wanted to…

She looked up at him. He was bright red again, and kept glancing away as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to be watching. It occurred to her that he'd never seen a woman this close to his junk before. Hmm. Well, the view was about to get a lot more interesting.

"Spencer," she said, feeling a bit dream-like. "You don't have to keep looking away. You can watch. Now relax."

He'd been halfway through the word "ok" when she leaned down and took him into her mouth. Then he'd made a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a scream.

Unlike the other guys she'd done this for, he actually kept himself clean, so when she ran her tongue against the smooth head in her mouth it actually wasn't unpleasant. In fact, there was something perversely pleasing about licking a part of him that had never even been seen by another woman, much less touched or tasted. She did this thoughtfully a few times, and then released him to give one swift lick from the base to the tip. She registered all the interesting sounds he was making, but also, with faint wonder, realized that this was actually enjoyable. Who'd have thought?

Flashing him a quick smile, she rested her hands on his hips and wrapped her mouth around him again, this time sliding down to the base. She held him quite still –last thing she needed was him moving and setting off her gag reflex. He was shaking under her fingers, and every time she moved he responded with SOME sound, be it moan or whimper or gasp. She could have sped up and really given him reason to make noise, but this was fine for right now. This was something she was new at, too.

Eventually her hands wandered away from his hips to wander over his body, and this was when she began to taste saltiness on her tongue –this wasn't going to last long. A few minutes at most. She sucked slightly and another very loud gasp/scream escaped from him. His hands kept moving around, switching between gripping the sides of the couch and looking for a place to hold her.

Eventually a rhythm developed, where moved up and down on him, letting her tongue wander inside her mouth all over him, sucking whenever she felt like hearing that delicious sound he made (it was very difficult not to abuse this newfound power). Her hands roamed over his chest and stomach to this, and he moved with it, like it was a tide he was floating in. It wasn't like last night, this wasn't the same as being overcome with desire…but it was enough for now.

His body jerked suddenly, "_Emily…_"

Her hands came to rest on his lower belly and her tongue and lips stopped; a split second decision was made and she decided not to move while the flavor of slick saltyness spilled onto her tongue. He gasped a little each time he pulsed, until it stopped.

So. She'd just given Spencer Reid a blowjob.

Stranger things had happened, she supposed.

Raising her head enough to swallow (why not? It was easier than getting up and finding a tissue box) she looked at Spencer for the first time since this had started. He was completely limp, his bangs sweated onto his forehead, and breathing hard. Nice to see that she'd finally got him to unwind. Pleasure ran through her at the sight of him, and she kissed him on the hip before sliding up to rest her head on his chest. That, too, was coated lightly with sweat.

They spent a few minutes in contented silence.

"Emily…"

"Mmmhmm?"

"I…really…really wasn't expecting that."

"Hmm. Me neither."

She felt him crane his neck to look at her questioningly, and then he seemed to accept it and lie back down. "You are very strange," he said simply.

"So…" her buzz was killed a little by the thought of this next question, but it had to be asked. "Did you like it?"

To her surprise, he actually rolled around and had her in his arms in one motion, and was looking her in the face. She blinked sleepily at him. The jetlag was starting to come on now.

But instead of saying anything, he kissed her on the lips, just once, and then relaxed against the cushion with a faint smile on his face.

It was the second time they'd fallen asleep on the couch together.

_**XxXxX**_


	18. Chapter 17: Your Move

_XxXxX_

**Chapter Seventeen: Your Move**

_XxXxX_

The next week was case-free, and Reid could not have been happier about it, because he was basically useless in all that time. He was supposed to be putting his best foot forward at work, but the best he was able to manage these past few days was a sort reactive daze; people would ask him things and he'd answer, sure, but he was aware he sounded just a little bit high (not that he had any clear recollection of what he sounded like high, being, well, high at the time). This, obviously, was of some concern to his team-mates, who probably thought he WAS high. Given in to the stress of being Reid at last, poor Reid. What with the Gideon drama and all. The truth was he didn't especially care about Gideon at the moment. He didn't even care about Strauss or the evil eye she gave him on a daily basis.

He kept flashing back to that night with Emily and not much else seemed to matter.

'_Hormones_,' he told himself for the thousandth time. '_Instinct driven by biological urge to procreate. No excuse to let your guard down_!' Except then he'd think of lips and hands and a head of sleek black hair in his lap and next thing he knew it was half an hour later. He could work on auto-pilot, of course, but the dip in quality offended his sensibilities, and wasn't helping his case for employment.

His eyes slid over to Morgan, who was tossing a ball in the air and catching it instead of writing his consultation. Was this why Morgan never seemed able to concentrate? Was he replaying his doubtless hundreds of sexual conquests in his mind even as Spencer watched him? And what about Emily? He turned his gaze to her; SHE stayed focused, no problem. Was this a bi-product of being male, then? No, that was an archaic belief; women were now known to have libidos just as high as men. Though he could see why science had thought otherwise for so long.

When he'd woken the morning after their first encounter, she was still asleep, and it was exactly four AM. He'd carefully extracted himself from her arms, trying not to wake her, and crept off to the bathroom. All the lights were still on, and he moved through the halls with the weird sense of being in a carnival funhouse. For one thing, his legs felt extremely wobbly, as if the muscles had been turned to noodle. When he'd finished in the washroom he'd leaned against the sink, staring unbelievingly into the water as it rushed down the drain. He'd just had _sex_.

Well, not sex exactly. Oral sex.

(he'd refused to let himself think the word 'blowjob' for fear of sinking to the floor and being unable to get back up)

It had felt a lot different than he'd expected. For some reason (and he couldn't be sure why this was) he wasn't expecting to be so…aware, during. He'd imagined it would be a bit like in the movies, with a mental equivalent of a fade to black. Like his higher thought processes would shut down. But they didn't; he was still thinking clear, coherent thoughts, still had a running monologue, could still remember the Pythagoras Theorem without much effort. So it turned out his brain had a lot to say while he watched Emily give him a…a…

He did end up sinking down onto the bathroom floor. He felt a bit dizzy. But he got up again in a few minutes and went back to Emily, and slept the last few hours they had alone away.

And now he was back at work, trying to deal with his exploded brain.

XxXxX

"I've been thinking a lot about the other night," he told her one day, one of the rare few times she was at _his_ apartment. All he had to eat here was ramen, but she didn't complain; it was also one of the rare times he'd made a meal for her.

"Oh yeah?" she said around a mouthful of noodles. "What about it, hon?"

"Nothing in particular, actually. I've just been…thinking about it."

He'd meant it prosaically, as a way to probe and see if she had been thinking about it too –and if she remembered it as fondly as he did. She looked at him, ramen dangling out of her mouth, and everything seemed to pause.

The next second they were somehow halfway to his bedroom, arms wrapped around each other and kissing ferociously. His shirt was the first to go, he heard his belt fall to the ground with a clatter; he tried to return the favour, but undoing –yeesh—_bra-clasps_ seemed a bit much to ask of him at that moment. He'd only expected a quiet evening of ramen and conversation.

'Not that I'm complaining,' he thought as his back hit the bed. Emily's clothes weren't quite off, and he didn't think they were going to come all the way off, but he had no intention of letting her do all the work again. For better or for worse.

XxXxX

Having a sex life for the first time –even the sort of half-sex life that included no official sex in the medical sense—was pretty bizarre. For one thing, it involved practically nothing he was good at, with perhaps the saving grace that he was very good at reading people. He could tell when Emily was happy and comfortable and pleased and worried and a whole host of other things; when they were together that way, all her usual barriers seemed to come down, and she was as easy to read as the average plebe walking down the street. He'd mentioned this to her the night their third encounter happened (which was, pleasantly enough, only one day after their second encounter), and she seemed surprised. Perhaps he was her only partner who'd elicited such a response. The idea pleased him, but the trouble remained; he could quite easily read her mood and motivations in the middle of sex, but had very little idea of what to DO with that information. THAT was a form of social interaction, and he was no good at that bit.

Luckily for him Emily seemed to be in charge of all things intimate…for the moment. He was free to follow her lead, and most of his attempts were merely reverse imitations of her. That, at the very least, took a lot of stress off him. He didn't have to worry too much about screwing up when the results were so rewarding either way.

But the weirdest part of it all –the part he'd most expected to be practically torture by this point in their relationship, but had actually underestimated exactly HOW tortuous it would be—was going back to work in the morning, and pretending to still be nothing more than close co-workers. It was different to keep mere kisses secret than the fact that the lady in the desk next to yours has not only seen you naked multiple times, but…

The point was, it was weird, and he wasn't sure how everyone else went about with this being an everyday part of their lives since mid-teen hood. As if it was simple as buttering bread, or going for a swim in the pool. Perhaps it was good that he'd only gotten started now…he sincerely doubted his teenage brain could have handled it at the time.

XxXxX

"Good work everyone, I'll see you tomorrow, get some rest," Hotch said. JJ switched off the briefing screen and everyone stood to leave. Reid was relieved that the day was finally over, and as usual he resisted the urge to do any more than glance in Emily's direction. As usual his resistance fell to pieces and he looked over at his girlfriend, only to see that her attention was already taken up by Hotch.

"Sure, it's no problem," she was saying, nodding eagerly, but her smile seemed a little forced. Hotch noticed, his frown deepened into a scowl.

"Are you sure you're fine with it? I know it's a last minute favor…"

"Go home and be with your son, I'll take care of it."

Hotch watched her, then nodded, and left the bullpen. Reid quickly looked away as he passed, returning to busily packing his bag. He didn't want to give the impression that he'd been eavesdropping.

After the door shut behind their boss, Emily said: "Change of plans, Reid. Hotch wants me to stay late."

His heart sank in funny way, and it didn't help that she had to call him 'Reid' here at work. He much preferred being Spencer with her.

"Why?" he asked, thinking a whole lot of uncharitable things about their Supervisory Agent.

"Jack has the flu. He wants to go home to him ASAP, you know."

"Oh."

Well, now he felt a bit like an asshole.

"He just needs somebody to clean up the bullpen and fill out the forms on his desk. Should only take a few hours." She said. Then, smiling weakly, added under her breath: "I could give you my house-keys if you wanted. If you don't mind waiting up."

Reid could think of a whole host of interesting ways he could 'wait' for Emily, to surprise her when she got home. He was confident enough for precisely zero of them. And he didn't particularly feel like being separated for hours, anyway. "Can I stay and help you instead?"

Her smile was warm. "Sure," she said. Then, a little mischievously: "Hey, you don't think the security cameras in here pick up sound, do you?"

"Of course they do," he said. She groaned.

"Damn it."

"Don't worry about it, they only play the recordings with the sound on if they suspect a suspicious conversation is happening. We're not that suspicious."

"We might be just suspicious enough."

"I doubt it. Anyway, the security in here is flawed. For instance, that corner…" he pointed into the far corner of the bullpen, where the white shutters hung from the never opened windows. "…is completely un-monitored. You can see it from the hall through the window in the doorway, so maybe they thought that was sufficient, but there's no cameras on it."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"And when did you decide to take the time to figure that out?"

He opened his mouth and closed it again, feeling his face heat up. It had been stupid, but everyone else read so slow during their briefings and he needed to occupy his mind with SOMETHING in the room. Plus he was still finding it really difficult to take his mind off…things.

Emily was giving him a devious look, one that he was beginning to recognize as the "Spencer has just accidentally put me in the mood" face. It was nice to see, but he wasn't sure how he kept doing this. It was always accidental. She assured him he was just naturally sexy, but he wasn't so sure.

He wondered what would happen if he tried to be sexy on purpose.

Keeping his eyes locked with hers, he carefully backed away from her, trying to keep his expression playful (what does a playful expression look like? How was he supposed to know if he looked playful without a mirror around to guide him?) until he was standing in the un-monitored corner. Emily stared at him, apparently bewildered.

"Your move," he said, thinking weirdly of chess.

Her eyes widened in shock, and for a split-second he actually thought she was going to rebuff him (this wasn't really the time or the place, but…), but then she was walking towards him, slowly as to not appear suspicious to whoever was watching the security footage, and then she was in front of him. Her palms were pressed into the wall on either side of him, her face an inch away from his.

"So nobody can see?" she asked, and he wasn't used to hearing hesitation in her voice.

"Nobody," he said.

"And everyone else has gone home?"

He looked over her shoulder and through the window in the door. All the desks he could see—the ones that belonged to their team—were empty. "I'm ninety percent sure."

She looked at him thoughtfully, and then leaned into him for a kiss. He kissed her back. This was stupid, they were going to get caught, did he seriously have no self-control?

No, it turned out he didn't. Swell.

His arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her closer, deepening the embrace. They shouldn't be doing this, but they'd stop in two seconds….three seconds…it wasn't like they were having sex or anything, just kissing…

Six seconds later the door to the bullpen burst open.

XxXxX

Emily jumped away from him so fast you'd think he'd suddenly sprouted spikes all over his skin, but he wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the door, which had just been securely shut, which had offered him a false view of empty desks. Hotch was standing in the door, glaring at them.

He groaned; and Garcia was standing about two feet behind him, her mouth hanging open like a cartoon character. Great.

Nobody said anything for a long time, Reid was leaning against the wall, exactly where he'd been when Emily had been pressing against him. Emily herself was standing about three feet away from him, and engaging in some sort of staring contest with Hotch. Garcia was looking between the two of them like it was a tennis match, and a high-pitched, continuous note was beginning to rise out of her gaping throat.

"Hotch…" Emily said at last.

"OH MY GOD!" Garcia shrieked. Hotch turned sharply to fix his glare on her, and her lips pursed quickly; but her eyes were bugging out, as if the effort of keeping in her exclamations of shock was building pressure inside her skull. Hotch grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into the room, and then pulled the door closed behind her. He seemed to quickly scan the offices outside (Reid almost felt like warning him that this was an untrustworthy practice, but it seemed like a dangerous point to make right now).

Meanwhile, Emily was plucking at his sleeve, apparently trying to get him to move out of the hall's line of sight. He felt almost too shell-shocked to move. This was it, wasn't it? Gideon had won. All because he had to go and try to bolster his ego. He only hoped that Emily wouldn't come under fire as well.

Emily kept plucking and he forced himself to move, eyes dropping to the ground. He couldn't stare at Garcia staring at him anymore. He and Emily now stood on one side of the round table, with Hotch and Garcia on the other. The tension in the room was palpable

"How long has this been going on?" Hotch said at last, his voice eerily calm.

Reid opened his mouth to speak, but found he couldn't; at that would come out was a sort of rasping squeak. Emily spoke for him:

"A few weeks…just over a month and a half, really," she said.

Their boss's eyebrows rose slowly. Garcia's hands shot to her mouth, but she made no sound.

"It's a relationship, not casual sex," Emily went on. Reid wanted to phase under the floorboards and die. "We mutually approached each other, no harassment or frivolity, and it's all taken place outside the workplace."

"Until now," Hotch didn't sound amused. For the first time, Emily dropped her gaze.

"Yes sir, until just now."

"Er…in their defense, the workday is technically over…" Garcia ventured, but she stopped when she saw Hotch's shoulders stiffen. There was another long pause. Reid began to notice that nobody was talking to him, and began to wonder why just as Hotch finally turned to him.

"I wouldn't have expected this from you, in your position," he said, and before Reid could answer: "Normally I'd take you both to my office for the full rundown of procedure, and normally I'd report this right away. But my son is sick at home, so this will have to wait. I expect you both to have very well-thought-out explanations tomorrow, and a good reason for me to keep this from Strauss. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

And he turned to go, his coat hooked over his arm. But before he left, with his hand on the doorknob, he said without turning: "Oh, and Garcia, please keep everything here to yourself. I mean it."

"Y-yes sir!" Garcia said.

"You should also return to your duties. Emily, please do the favor I asked of you. Reid," Reid started. "Go home."

"Yes sir," he mumbled. And Hotch left.

Garcia gaped at them awhile longer before she too left, mouthing 'we are SO going to talk later' to Emily. Then it was just him and her.

"I'll wait for you at your house," he said.

"Spencer, it'll be ok. Hotch will understand."

"Yeah, okay," he said, not really believing her but not feeling up to arguing. "See you later."

She reached over and squeezed his hand; he squeezed back, accepting the smidgen of comfort.

"I'll see you tonight," she said.

XxXxX


	19. Chapter 18: Stalemate

XxXxX

**Chapter Eighteen: Stalemate**

XxXxX

The drive to work the next morning was awkward. There was a weird sense of not knowing how to behave; should they stick to their regular, pretend-like-everything-is-still normal-procedure? Or could they loosen up, seeing as their secret was distinctly less secretive now?

They opted for 'proceed as normal,' but it felt odd. It was weird for Reid to admit, even for himself, but he'd always felt a little (sexual?) thrill when they'd put on this act. It was the first time in his life he was doing something quote unquote "bad" that he actually enjoyed. It always made him feel a little bit star-crossed, and just frustrated enough that when they eventually got to be alone, later in the night, the release was that much more satisfying. Now, it felt oddly like going through the motions of a play without an audience. Or even other actors.

He knew at once that it was all for naught when the elevator doors opened and he saw Morgan there, waiting for him, eyebrows halfway up his skull.

"Hi, Morgan," he said, sounding false even to his own ears.

"Hi Prettyboy," Morgan said. "Look, Garcia told me…"

"Told you what?" Emily had just come up behind them. They'd ridden separate elevators to maintain the illusion. So much for that.

"Nooothing," he said, looking between the two of them like he wasn't sure who they were. "Anyway, Hotch wants you two…see you later…"

He left them to return to his desk, and Reid shot a glance at Emily. As usual, she was tough as stone, no reaction to what had just occurred.

As they moved through the crowds and the desks to get to their Supervisory Agents office, he saw with some relief that most everyone didn't notice them. Given the scandalous nature of office romances, and the notoriousness of their particular team for bending the rules, he felt sure everyone would be staring at them if they all knew. But nobody was; a few even greeted them with cheery, oblivious, "Good morning Special Agent Reid! Good Morning Special Agent Prentiss!" and went on their way. That, at least, had not changed.

"Spence!"

JJ was rushing up to them from her office, looking slightly out of breath, blonde hair bouncing wildly. He stopped and shifted from foot to foot a little uncomfortably. He saw Emily stop about five feet away from him in the corner of his eye. He could only hope JJ just wanted some advice on a case selection. Even though she had never asked for advice on a case selection.

"Spence," she said again, stopping in front of him. He noticed a few people in their desks had turned around with interest; JJ rarely showed emotion during work hours. "Garcia called me last night."

"Um, did she?" he asked.

"Yeah. Is that what you're going to see Hotch for?"

He should have known. He should have known secrets couldn't be kept in this group. "Yeah."

She glanced at Emily briefly. "And…?"

Shuffling his feet, "Yeah."

She stared at him, still and intense. He dared not move. Then out of the blue she hugged him, her arms stiff like she wasn't used to the gesture, and then with his release turned and walked briskly back to her office. He allowed himself a few moments of genuine shock before continuing on his way, shrugging minutely at Emily as she caught his eye.

JJ and Morgan weren't the only ones. On the short walk to Hotch's office, they saw Rossi eyeing them through his doorway, and it didn't take rocket science to figure out why. He, at least, didn't try to confront them, but merely shrugged and retreated back to his desk. Then Reid realized that if ROSSI knew (and Rossi, as much as they had all grown to like him, was not the sort of person you called up late at night for juicy gossip), then there was a good chance that GIDEON knew. And Gideon, whatever Hotch decided, could not be trusted not to go to Strauss.

Trying not to look as panicked as he felt, Reid searched the whole area with his eyes for his former mentor, but he was nowhere to be seen. Probably tucked away already in his weird, obscure office. But he'd have to figure out how much he knew later. That was imperative.

This entire trip had taken less than two minutes (although it was a very eventful two minutes, at least in Reid's mind. Emily, being slightly ahead of him, was the one to knock on Hotch's door. He heard him call, "Come in."

They opened the door and stepped in, and Reid shut the door behind them, instantly muting out the noise outside. Hotch was waiting for him at his desk, looking as always as if he'd been sewn into his suit, with a scowl carved deep into his features. It was thus entirely impossible to tell if he was happy to see them or not. The profiler in Reid guessed not, though.

"Good morning, sir," Emily said. He nodded.

"I'm going to talk to the both of you individually, then together," he said. It seemed he was in no mood to mince words or pay heed to social niceties. "Reid, please wait outside. I want to speak to Emily first."

"Okay," he muttered, feeling like a child sent to the office (not that he had ever been sent to the office as a child, except to receive student awards, so perhaps this was not how it felt at all. But whatever). He slunk out of the room, not feeling bold enough to give Emily any gesture of good luck or affection on his way out.

XxXxX

Sitting outside doing nothing was almost as stressful as the initial walk up to the office. Here on the little chair set aside for him in the hall, he was exposed and vulnerable to the curious eyes of his co-workers, who were no doubt wondering what the sainted Dr. Reid had done. Worse still, he occasionally had to bear the questioning gaze of his team-mates as they milled about; JJ's piercing concern, Morgan's shock. Garcia actually grinned and waved. He didn't return the greeting; for the first time ever he was actually angry with Garcia. Couldn't she have just done what Hotch said and kept this all to herself?

Telling Rossi, too, which was strange for her. Morgan and JJ were her best friends, so that made some sense, but not Rossi. And there was no doubt now that he knew; the older man had actually emerged from his office, gave Reid a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, said, "That's why you keep it at home, kid," and then wandered away. Reid sat there without responding, struck dumb. He even knew about the BULLPEN MAKEOUT? How big a mouth did Garcia have?

That, in his mind, settled it. There was no way Gideon could not know. Not with the whole team so obviously having their minds blown by it. Forget being a profiler; a stoned high school drop-out could have figured it out.

It was a long while before Emily came out and told him it was his turn. She didn't look particularly shaken, but when did she ever?

Envying her nerves more than ever, he went into the office.

XxXxX

"Sit," Hotch said. He didn't seem any warmer from his conversation with Emily. Reid sat.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said.

"Don't be sorry yet, I still need to clarify a few things."

"I started it in the bullpen yesterday. That had never happened before, and Emily would never have…if I didn't…"

"That's not the question I was going to ask."

His mouth clamped shut, fearing the worst.

"How long have you and Prentiss been seeing each other?"

"Um, like she said, about a month and a half."

"So not very long at all. But after you were brought back from suspension."

"Yes sir," he said. "We got close when both of us were off work."

"Who initiated the relationship?"

Reid searched his perfect memory, beginning to sweat, "That's a, uh, matter of interpretation sir."

Hotch remained silent, waiting for his answer.

"I guess…I did?" He'd kissed her, anyway. But she was the one who'd reached out to him, become his friend. The line between friend and girlfriend was strangely thin, in their case. But this didn't seem like the appropriate thing to tell his boss. He had to keep something for himself. "Outside of work. We've tried not to let it interfere with anything here at the bureau."

"I know that," Hotch said, to his surprise. "Is the relationship sexual? I have to ask, Reid." He added when he saw whatever look had just appeared on his face.

"I…yes," he said. "But only recently!"

Ugh. That felt like way too much information.

"Is the relationship serious?"

It felt like déjà-vu. He himself had asked that very question a few weeks ago, not terribly far from this spot as a matter of fact. "Yes, sir."

"I see."

Hotch sighed, and looked down at his hands.

"Good enough. Tell Emily to come back in. I'll talk to you together now."

Reid nodded and rose from his chair, thinking to himself that his interrogation had felt a lot shorter than hers.

XxXxX

Reid and Emily were in their seats across from Hotch, awaiting his decision like a sentence. Reid was already thinking of how he'd have to pack up his desk again, without getting even halfway through his trial period against Gideon. It was no wonder Strauss wanted him fired.

Emily was grim but still. He wondered what they'd been talking about all that time. He hoped it was something good, something better than what he'd been able to come up with. His trouble was he didn't know what was appropriate information and what wasn't. Emily would know; she was good at that sort of thing.

Finally, Hotch spoke: "You both know you could lose your jobs over this."

They nodded.

"I wouldn't be in a particularly good position either if anyone found out I was hiding this."

They nodded again, this time a little uncertainly.

"But…" he glanced at Emily, to Reid's wonder. "I'm not going to report you. If it's a stable relationship with no chance of endangering the job, then I see no problem. Both of you have still put in excellent work the last month, particularly you, Reid…in your own way." Reid looked down, embarrassed. "At this point it would be more destructive to ask you to end it and have a pair of exes on the team. So…" His eyes softened, and Reid's eyes bugged out. "Just keep it low-key, and Strauss need not know. Gideon shouldn't know either, but that goes without saying," he added prosaically.

"You won't be disappointed sir," Emily said. Reid was too busy gaping. Could they really be this ridiculously lucky? Or…

He looked at Emily. What HAD she said?

"I hope not," he said grimly. "The rest of the team, you can feel free to make aware. If Garcia had not already done so," he sighed. "You can get back to work now. For the record, I'm happy for you two."

They left the office in a daze, and stood outside the door for awhile, not caring that everyone kept glancing up at them wonderingly. Finally, Reid asked out of the corner of his mouth, "What in the world did you tell him to win him over like that?"

She turned to him, grinning from ear to ear. "Just the truth."

And then flounced away, leaving him to ponder what the hell that meant.

XxXxX

It came out over the course of the day that Garcia had, indeed, called Morgan and JJ the night before to spread the news.

"I didn't think they counted," she said. "Seeing as they are my bestest best buds for life. I mean, Hotch wouldn't be mad if I told my Mom, right?"

"Your mom doesn't work here," Emily said.

"Well, that's mostly because she's dead, resthersoul. But in THEORY…"

But to Reid's surprise, she had NOT called Rossi, and neither had Morgan or JJ. This was a bit spooky, considering the depths of his knowledge. Emily let him know privately during a coffee break that she suspected Rossi had known for awhile; apparently he'd once teased her for checking him out.

"You check me out?" he asked with interest, only to be shushed as a pair of interns wandered by. His question never got answered.

"So this means…" he said a few minutes later. "That Gideon probably DOESN'T know?"

"Nope, I guess not. This turned out pretty alright, didn't it?"

He nodded. It was a bit of a surreal day.

The Gideon thing continued to nag at him though…how easy would it be to keep this a secret now that the entire rest of the team was in on it? About an hour after his interrogation by Hotch, he saw Gideon come in from the elevator, briefcase in hand. This was confusing; he was over an hour late for work. He'd just assumed earlier that Gideon was already in his office. The last time he'd allowed himself to pay any attention to his comings and goings, he'd always been early. But then, that was awhile ago. As usual he walked right past everyone, without a nod or a hello. He'd said he'd wanted to rebuild old relationships, but he hadn't been making very much effort, so far. Perhaps this was why nobody had any particular qualms with keeping secrets from him.

At the end of the day, when most of the offices had been cleared out, the team spoke more openly about what happened (which meant speaking about it at all, albeit with very hushed voices). JJ ventured out of her office to join them, as did Garcia.

"You two are SO cute together," Garcia kept saying. She didn't seem to be able to stop grinning.

"I just can't believe you both held out on me," Morgan said. "I mean, what the hell? I only sit right beside you two eight hours every day. What about all our burger trips? You didn't think you could tell me then?"

"Like you tell us all about your girlfriend?" Reid asked, and Morgan shut up. Briefly.

"Still man, this is NEWS. I can't believe you didn't trust me."

"Oh get over yourself, Derek. You know why we didn't say anything," Emily said, punching him on the shoulder. Her partner smiled, but he didn't seem to want anybody to see it.

The weirdest part, for Reid, was when JJ pulled Emily off to the side just before she had to leave. He watched them curiously as they spoke, and then JJ reached out and hugged his girlfriend, just as awkwardly as she'd done to him earlier. Emily returned, a bemused look on her face.

"What was that about?"

"Hm? Oh, she says she happy you finally found someone," she said. "She also wanted me to know that if I break your heart, she's going to beat the shit out of me."

He started to laugh, but Emily didn't. He looked at JJ from where she was standing behind closing elevator doors, and saw that her face was completely serious.

He reminded himself, for the thousandth time, that their media liaison was a hell of a lot scarier than she looked.

XxXxX

The air was cool and pleasant that night on the way home; Reid actually rolled down the car window and let it blow across his sweaty forehead, feeling the last of his nerves shiver out of him. It had been a weird, unexpected, tension-filled, but ultimately rewarding day. It felt good to finally talk about all this with someone besides his mother (and even then that wasn't really talking, just a quick 'Emily is good' to let Mom know the girlfriend was still in the picture). He suspected Emily felt much the same, humming as she was, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. He looked over at her and his chest swelled up. She always looked beautiful at night, her face lit by the passing streetlights. A cold wind blew and he shuddered, relishing the sharpness of it against his skin. To think he'd never realized how tense he'd been about all this, and for how long.

It had been wordlessly decided that he was going to spend another night at her house (his latest attempt at plant-keeping had no doubt already shriveled up and died, for all the time he spent in his apartment these days), and he was looking forward to it. Tonight, he felt, would be an excellent night for drinks and conversation.

But when they got to her brownstone, the first thing she said was, "You know this isn't really resolved, right?"

Well. That pulled him right out of his happy place.

"Huh?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, today went insanely well. Better than I ever could have hoped. But…" she smiled weakly. "It's going to come out sooner or later. To everyone else, I mean."

Of course he did know that. But he'd been trying not to think about it. He was so shocked he wasn't fired already that he'd made the effort not to be a pessimist about it. But of course Emily wouldn't call it pessimistic. She'd call it 'practical.' The worst was that she was right.

"Yeah, but I don't think we'll have to worry about that for awhile," he lied between his teeth. The other problem was the omnipresence of Gideon, an extremely skilled profiler, in the middle of what seemed lately like a bunch of giddy, gossipy teenagers. 'Awhile' might end up being a matter of days, depending on when their next case came in. Emily knew it too; he could tell she wasn't buying what he was saying.

"I'm worried about Hotch now, too…"

"We can just say he had no idea."

"But then he looks incompetent."

"Better incompetent than downright lying. Or, er, omitting information. Besides, his son has the flu. He's justifiably distracted."

Emily sighed, "I guess that's true."

When they got inside she wandered, a little dejectedly, to the kitchen. He followed; by the time he got there, she was already pouring herself a generous helping of scotch.

"Want one?" she asked. He nodded, and she pulled out another tumbler for him. Drinks in hand, they went and sat at her kitchen table.

They sat in silence for a long time, the drinks and conversation he'd daydreamed about puffed away in smoke, the cool reassuring night air a distant memory. It was quite awhile before he worked up the nerve to ask the question that had been haunting him for weeks now:

"Emily…" he forced himself to look at her as he said this. "If you had to choose between profiling and us, what would you choose?"

It was the question he'd asked himself when he first tried to tell his mother about Emily; it was a question he'd never been able to answer. Perhaps this was selfish on his part, since it wasn't like he didn't have options. Someone like him could get a job anywhere he damn well pleased, but he didn't want to. He loved it at the BAU; it was the first place he'd ever made friends, the first place he ever felt useful instead of just smart. He helped people there. He found Emily there. But Emily meant a lot to him, too. Possibly more. But possibly less.

With this in mind, he promised not to be hurt by Emily's answer, even if she didn't choose him. It was not like he could do any better.

But after a few moments of contemplating her drink, she only said, "I don't know, Spencer."

A beat, and then. "I don't know either. Not because you're not extremely important to me…"

"I know. I feel the same way."

"You're ok with it?" he asked.

"I'm OK with it. I don't need declarations of everlasting devotion, and I don't think you do either. I prefer we be honest," she said. Then, taking a drink. "I think 'I don't know' is the best we can do for each other right now."

That, he thought, was extremely insightful. It really was the best they could do.

XxXxX

_A/N: I know, ouch, right? Well I did say I wasn't planning a traditional love story. The next chapter is a special one, but it's really short, so if you'd like me to post it before Tuesday (as well as the regular update on Tuesday) let me know in a review. And of course I love to hear your feedback. Cheers!_


	20. Chapter 19: Hotch and Rossi

**XxXxX**

**Special Chapter Nineteen: Hotch and Rossi**

**XxXxX**

Aaron Hotchner, after sending Reid and Prentiss out of his office that morning, sat for awhile without moving, contemplating the magnitude of what he'd just done. Possibly, he'd just dealt a huge blow to his own career. Probably, he'd ended theirs. But then, to have reported them would have had the same effect; they'd be fired for fraternizing (while one of them was under serious evaluation, no less), and Strauss would accuse him of poor leadership. Poor leadership was the only explanation for missing something as blatantly obvious as two of his team-members sleeping together.

All of which was true. Strauss would have been perfectly justified, but that didn't make him any more inclined to sympathize with her.

He'd decided that if they had to come down on the wrong side of the rules, he would at least do it in the way that wouldn't require betraying his friends. That was the problem here, really; they were all friends. Team-members weren't supposed to be as close as they all were; it interfered with the chain of command, the chain he was so blatantly misusing right now. But they'd become family, all the same. Given how much time they spent together, perhaps that was inevitable.

He thought of having to leave early and rush home against traffic just to spend an hour and a half with his ill son, and not for the first time felt a touch of guilt. He knew some of his co-workers better than his own child. That fact alone, perhaps out of principle, made it very difficult for him to do anything that might harm them or their reputations, regardless of how it might affect him

There was also what Prentiss told him, in the first interview. He hadn't been expecting to hear it, not when the supposed relationship was so young, but he believed her. She was not the type to say something that personal if it didn't happen to be true. She hadn't said the same thing to Reid yet, that much he could tell from the second interview. But perhaps they were fine with it being unsaid; besides that one detail, their answers had been identical to each others. They both considered the relationship serious, for example, and maybe that was enough.

He still had a lot of work to do, as always. Sometimes he thought he took on too many duties (far more than any of the other supervisory agents, that much was certain), but didn't like to leave something unfinished if it could be done. Yet right now he couldn't even bring himself to pick up his pen, though he had trouble explaining to himself exactly why.

At times like this, when Hotch couldn't bring himself to work anymore, due to stress or Jack or any other thing that he normally wasn't comfortable talking about, he always did the same thing. He'd go and see David.

So that's what he decided to do.

**XxXxX**

"Come in!" David called when he knocked. Hotch let himself in and found his comrade waiting behind his desk, an open bottle of scotch sitting squarely in front of him. Ready for him.

He allowed himself a small smirk. After all these years, it wasn't really surprising that David knew him so well. He entered the room and locked the door behind him. This conversation was to be a private one. As most conversations –the ones that mattered, anyway—with his closest peer were.

"I see you've already taken matters into your own hands," he observed.

"I thought you might need this."

"You do know it's not even noon, right?"

"Who in the world is going to care if two old sacks like us drink before noon?" David poured himself a glass and raised it to him. "Drink! You _do_ need it, or you wouldn't have come over. Not when you have a paper pile the size of Jack to work through."

Hotch sat down and pulled one of the many tumblers over to him, and poured a miniscule amount into it. Enough to muse on, but not get tipsy. David shot him a slightly disapproving look, but then smiled.

"So," he said. "What's up?"

He breathed in deeply through his nose–quickly deciding that there was no point hiding this from David Rossi, of all people, the veritable King of workplace fraternization—and said, "Reid and Prentiss have an intimate relationship."

"Yeah, I knew that."

He looked up sharply, "You did?"

"Well, I caught Emily giving him a once-over a few weeks back. And the kid…he doesn't hide things well. I figured something was going on; there's at least been an attraction for quite awhile now."

"How long is 'quite awhile?'"

"I would say even before Emily was shot, but I bet they'd disagree with me. If there's one thing young people know nothing about, it's their own feelings," he took a plaintive sip of his drink.

Hotch turned that over in his mind. He had never noticed an attraction. Or perhaps, because one of them was Reid (whom he'd always sort of assumed was asexual) he'd just never bothered to look?

David continued, "But I take it it's gone a bit beyond attraction?"

"Quite a bit. They're sleeping together."

"That doesn't surprise me," He was raising his glass to his lips for another sip.

"They're in a committed relationship."

The glass paused halfway, "_That_ surprises me a little."

"What? Why?"

"Well, Dr. Reid is a little….ah, virginal, for lack of a less emasculating term. Let's just say, if this was my first time around with a woman, it wouldn't be serious. Or _committed_, for God's sake."

"But Reid's not you, David," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Aaron, truer words have never been spoken. And all the better for him. Less divorce lawyers to pay," he was already pouring himself a second drink. Hotch had yet to touch his first. "Anyway, I take it you didn't have them tarred and feathered?"

"No," he said, thinking if what Prentiss had told him. "I couldn't do that."

"So now you're worried about the consequences of your actions."

He shrugged, "Partially. Ultimately the damage is already done, and it's going to come crashing down on them whichever route I take. I just did whatever made me feel less like an asshole."

"Good move."

"What I'm more concerned about," he continued. "Is how I missed this? It's been going on almost ever since they've come back to the office. We've done cases, spent hours all together. How did we all-."

"All except me."

"Yes, how did we all –except you—miss it? I thought I was paying attention."

"Don't beat yourself up over it. You've had a lot on your plate. Taking on extra work, raising your son, your SICK son I should remind you. Not to mention this bullshit going on with the team, the whole Gideon and Reid thing."

"Part of the whole 'Gideon and Reid' thing is that I'm supposed to be tracking and evaluating their behaviour. Fairly large oversight, don't you think?"

"I dunno, Strauss somehow managed to overlook that Gideon ditched you guys out of nowhere for no viable reason –and don't tell me it was because of what happened to Sarah. Not you, of all people. I'm just saying, you miss things. You're human." He snorted. "It would do you good to remember you have limits every now and again."

"I know I have limits, but I'm worried that I've already met them," he said. "I really can't afford to have met them already. There's too much I have to do. That I don't have a choice in."

There was a long silence, and then David reached over and patted his wrist in a strangely motherly gesture.

"Hey, you're not out the game yet," he said. "And besides, even if you had figured out what was going on with those two, what could you have done? Scolded them? Told them not to get together?"

Hotch said nothing.

"No. I know you Aaron, these people mean too much to you. You can't stand to make them unhappy."

"Are you saying you would be able to?"

"Hell no. None of my business anyways."

Hotch smirked. 'None of his business.' He'd never known a man who always knew so much about other people's business.

They sat in silence and drank for awhile –Hotch finally had to refill his tumbler, and this time he gave himself a more generous helping. He really was feeling like a sad old sack, so what did it really matter? There was also a bit of an unspoken agreement that alcohol was necessary for the type of work they did, which was why nobody seemed to care too much when the members of the BAU kept strong drink lying about in their offices. And only the truly naïve would think it didn't occasionally get consumed on the job. This was one of those times when it was needed.

"There's another thing," he said eventually. "Assuming that everything turns out fine, and nobody gets fired, and they're allowed to stay together…what happens when they break up?"

"'When?'"

"Fine, if, but we all know it's much more likely to be 'when.' It's just a statistical fact."

"True enough."

"So, 'if' they break up, what happens to the team? This group has a synergy unlike any other I've worked with. We're much better then we were a few years ago, with Elle and Gideon instead of you and Emily…Elle was a great profiler, but she was unstable. Gideon was….and is…one of the best, but…"

"He isolates himself."

Hotch nodded, "I almost can't believe they'd want to risk something so valuable. Teams like this don't come along every day." He said, incredulously.

"I think they'll be fine. Don't look at me like that! I'm not always a cynic when it comes to romance. I actually think they have a good chance of making it, whatever your statistics say."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, Emily is just about one of the toughest, most practical women I've ever met. She knows what she wants, and I don't think she'd waste the time –or take the risk—of dating a co-worker unless she thought it was worth it. As for the boy…well, people who wait the longest are often the best rewarded. Or so my Catholic upbringing told me," he gave a wry, lopsided smile. "Assuming everything works out beforehand, and you're very much correct to question _that_."

"What a mess. I wish they hadn't done any of this. I'm happy for them, but I wish they hadn't."

"I understand."

They'd reached the end of the bottle. David poured them each one last gulp.

"To the young," David said, raising his glass. "For fucking things up for the rest of us!"

Hotch laughed –he couldn't help himself—and clinked his glass against his friend's.

**XxXxX**


	21. Chapter 20: Sputter

_**XxXxX**_

**Chapter Twenty: Sputter**

_**XxXxX**_

The last few weeks had been unexpectedly pleasant for Emily. Of course she'd initially worried about Hotch lying for them, and the fact that the whole team knew, and how they were ever going to keep any of this from Gideon and, by extension, Strauss. It occurred to her that it wasn't simply a relationship on the line here, but the wellbeing of the entire team. The livelihood of her single-father boss. Her own career that she'd worked so hard to build. All for one guy.

If it had been any guy other than Spencer, she probably would have called it quits right then. But she had no intention of quitting anything with him; he'd become integrated into her daily life too quick for her to even notice when he started keeping an extra pair of pajama pants at her place, or when she had memorized the contents of his (admittedly bare) cupboards. Furthermore, she enjoyed nearly every second of it. In such a short amount of time she'd become closer with him than any boyfriend she'd ever had before, including a few she'd actually lived with. This was possibly because they'd started out closer than most people, being as they spent almost all their time together since the day they met.

In any case, it turned out all these worries were not as founded as she'd originally thought. She'd spent far too much time secret-keeping with Reid, who was an atrocious actor, and was surprised to see that the majority of the team had no trouble playing it cool (and she learned that Rossi had, in fact, been playing it cool for quite some time now). The only one who seemed to have any trouble was Garcia, and she was sealed away in her office ninety percent of the time anyway. All was well.

"Oh oh!" the tech analyst had asked one day. "Is it OK if I tell Kevin?"

"You told JJ and Morgan but not _Kevin_?"

"Duh, Hotch told me to keep a secret. So I did. But I don't keep secrets from my babies. That would just be wrong-." The group had to shush her as Agent Anderson walked by. He ended up staring anyway, and wandered off with his ears turned slightly pink. Poor guy probably thought they were gossiping about him.

But other then that that little incident, the days after the big reveal were painless. In fact, things were in some ways actually better. The relationship felt more real, now that other people knew about it, and she found herself with a strong desire to go on more actual, traditional dates. Spencer, apparently, felt much the same, and that was how they ended up going out for lunch on one of their rare days off.

For once she allowed the conversation to steer towards work. Normally she discouraged talking about the job, feeling that they had more meaningful things in common. But that night they were going to be leaving for a case, one that the whole team had been following on the news for days, just waiting to be called in. There was a home invader in Florida making the rounds, a house a day, leaving no one who happened to be in the house at the time alive. The interesting thing was that the unsub truly did seem to be –or at least thought he was – motivated by robbery; a few times he'd broken into houses that were empty, as if the discovery of people and subsequent murders were entirely incidental. The call had taken so long to come in that they'd had to suffer hearing about the handfuls of people killed every few days, knowing they could have done something about it. Finally being summoned was something of a relief, and thus talking about it, she felt, ought to be part of that relief.

But Spencer seemed distracted; he had a lot to say on possible profiles of the unsub (he felt they must be from a poor background, minimal education, due to the clumsy way his victims were disposed of), but his heart didn't seem to be in the discussion. In fact, he'd been a little far away and in his own head for a few days now. She'd already asked if he was experiencing one of his cravings (they openly called them cravings now, as a mark of the ever-growing trust between them), but he'd said no and asked her not to worry, he was just lost in thought. Spencer Reid being lost in thought was certainly not a new phenomenon, but she was getting a little weary of talking to half a mind.

Even if half his mind might be worth two of somebody else's.

"Spencer…" she started to say.

"Doyouwannahavesex?" he muttered, too quickly for her to hear. All she got was 'sex.'

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Um, not here or anything. I just…do you want to?"

"Well sure, when we get back to my place," she was whispering now, glancing around at the other patrons. Luckily the music in the restaurant was loud enough that nobody seemed to be able to hear them.

"Um, no, I mean…" He looked at her.

Oh.

"Are you propositioning me in the middle of lunch?" she asked, unable to keep the humor out of her voice. He immediately seemed annoyed with himself.

"I'm sorry, we'll talk about this later…this is clearly not the appropriate time…" by way of compensation he proceeded to stuff his mouth full of cobb salad. She actually burst out laughing and he looked up at her, confused.

It was hard to keep the smile off her face for the rest of lunch. It had been something she'd been thinking about a lot, too.

**_XxXxX_**

It was when they were on the road to his place, with the stylish and modern buildings slowly fading into the grizzled brown boxes that marked the beginning of Reid's neighborhood, that Emily thought to bring up the topic of sex again. The window was rolled down and the ever present smell of barbeque oozed in, succeeding in making her hungry despite having just taken a very large and moderately expensive lunch. Fall leaves crunched under her wheels and skittered along the road, like so many hermit crabs far from the beach. The reason the thought of sex occurred to her again was that this place reminded her so strongly of Spencer –not just because he lived here, but because of the non-threatening shabbiness, the Earthy atmosphere that always reminded her of Halloween no matter the season. She found herself glancing at him as she drove, admiring his profile while he gazed out the window at his passing neighbors. No better time to ask, really.

"So," she said. "You wanted to ask me something at lunch?"

He turned to her.

"Er, yeah, I guess I did," he said. "Didn't think I'd actually work up the courage, to be honest. Since you haven't said anything I was sort of starting to think it'd all been in my imagination."

"Do you imagine propositioning me often?" she asked, smirking.

"I…am not going to answer that." But a smile was creeping onto his face, too. "Anyway, I meant what I asked, no matter how poor the timing."

"And, just to be clear this time, you mean SEX sex?"

"Yeah."

"Ah." Now why was she getting nervous? Surely he should be nervous one –he was the virgin here after all, and she was the sexy and mysterious older woman (or so she sometimes liked to think).

"If you think this is too soon then…" he blurted out, perhaps seeing the puzzled look on her face and misreading it as her taking offense at the suggestion.

She laughed, cutting him off abruptly. She'd once slept with a guy on a second date (never a first date, though. Before the first date, yes, but never ON the first date), and here he was worrying that he was rushing things. Not for her part, no, as far as her experience went this was a slow burn. But then again…it's not like she ever had any guy's virtue to worry about before.

Heh. Virtue. She really would have to sleep with Reid soon, lest she start thinking things like that more often.

They pulled into the parking lot under his apartment building and she shifted into park, turning to him. He was waiting anxiously; how long had she been lost in thought? That laugh must have been pretty ominous without a comment to follow it up, she realized.

"Look," she said. "I already told you I can wait as long as you want. I meant it. I can also NOT wait as soon as you want, because frankly, I find you pretty sexy." As expected, his eyes dropped away from ears in embarrassment, but he seemed pleased by the compliment. "If you want to, just say the word."

"But I want your input too," he said.

"You have it. I want you. But don't feel rushed," she was beginning to feel like she was mixing her messages. She hoped he would get it. She would hate for him to do something he would regret.

She felt very nervous again all of a sudden, although she couldn't place why.

"Okay," he said, his voice a little lower than usual. Maybe all the assurances of his own desirability were getting to him.

The stairwell up to his apartment hadn't changed at all since she'd first ventured up here to invite him out for lunch –when it was him and Gideon living here, though she hadn't known that at the time. There was still the graffiti, which hadn't been changed or updated (perhaps the perpetrators had been kicked out, or moved away, or perhaps the landlord was simply too lazy to scrub them off. Property value didn't seem to be a problem when most of your tenants were old people who weren't going to be leaving anytime soon). The hallways were still dimly orange and narrow. They rarely came to his apartment, as her brownstone was simply more pleasant to be in. But she liked the place, in a weird way. Like the streets outside, it was exactly the kind of bizarre, forgotten place she would imagine Reid in.

They had come here, today, to pack his go-bag. The one he'd been using recently (which subsequently was often stored under the front foyer table at her place) was beginning to get a bit stale. The clothes needed to be run through the laundry; the notebooks were full; his stash of candy was almost depleted. It needed to be refilled, and she stood in the doorway watching him putter around the place scooping things into the worn brown satchel. It was a wonder he didn't knock over any of the leaning towers of books.

"You know, you could just get a laptop and not spend so much money on notebooks," she called as he disappeared into his bedroom. "A little one, like a net book."

He didn't answer, so she was left to stand, hands in her pockets, looking around the place. It smelled very strongly of dust, which was actually new. She wondered if they'd go back to her place or just hang out here, considering they had over five hours before they were supposed to meet up with the rest of the team-

It only then occurred to her that Spencer may have had an ulterior motive in asking to come here today.

The thought startled her. Would he really be so sneaky? She didn't particularly mind if he was, but NORMALLY she was the one who took charge in sexy situations, as he didn't seem quite sure how to do so yet (also because, well, she just kind of enjoyed it). Was she supposed to be taking some kind of hint right now? Was that why he was taking so long in the bedroom?

The nervousness filled her belly again like a thick syrup. It really was a little sad that he was a quick learner…if he got too good at this, he might change from her charmingly oblivious Spencer to some other guy, probably one she'd already dated. This was a nonsensical thought, and wasn't the least bit at risk of coming true, but…

Deciding she couldn't live with the tension, she was across the tiny living room and standing in the doorway to his bedroom. He was on the floor on his knees, half-buried in what looked like a dumped out laundry basket. He started at the sight of her.

"Uh, hi!" he said, scooping all the clothes closer to him, as if he could block them from her view. "I was just um…I kind of don't have any clean socks left."

She saw the ones he had picked out so far in a little pile next to him. None of them matched.

"Sorry," she said. "I thought you might be waiting in here naked or something."

His eyes widened a fraction, as if he were wondering if that's what he was supposed to be doing. "Why would you think that?"

"Er," No sense lying about it, she supposed. "Well, you did just ask if we could sleep together, so…"

"We have a case tonight!" He said incredulously.

"I know..."

"I…" he said, blinking. "I mean, we could, I guess. If you wanted. We…probably have time."

"No we can't. I don't have any condoms," it occurred to her now that this would have been the case no matter if he'd been waiting to seduce her. Stupid!

"Oh."

There was an awkward silence. One of his mismatched pairs of socks rolled down the laundry pile and out into the hall.

"I guess I'll just wait out here then. Do you wanna have coffee at my place after?" Anything to get away from here. The stench of embarrassment would be too strong.

"Yeah, okay," he said. She turned like a robot and went out into the living room to wait, thinking there was probably a reason her love life had been so lifeless for so long. Good thing Spencer was not judgmental.

_**XxXxX**_

The topic was broached one last time that day, as they were heading out the door to go meet with the team. Spencer had spun on his heel and said very quickly:

"I think it should be like our other first time. You know, when there's no cases for awhile. That way there won't be anything else on our minds."

"Good idea. Except maybe this time we should do it on a bed instead of a couch."

He nodded thoughtfully, as if she'd just proposed a new angle to consider Xeno's paradox. And then the weird, awkward, strangely youthful dance was over.

At least for the day.

_**XxXxX**_

The office they were given at the police station was unusually cramped, smaller than all the other rooms in the building by far. It also had no windows, and only one electrical outlet to plug in the laptop they used to communicate with Garcia. This left them no resources for any other technology, and barely enough room to pull in the bulletin board with the photos of the victims and such. Spencer had to do his geological profile on an actual paper map he'd bought and memorized at the airport, cramped onto one end of the little metal table. Emily was glad she was normally given field work, because more than a few hours of this would leave her with a very strong desire to punch someone.

Hotch had already gone to see the Captain and complain about their work conditions, but he was given a very obvious brush-off. It seemed this was one of those towns that resented the fact they'd had to ask for help. They ran into those from time to time. Their team leader had returned and told them all to do the best they could under the circumstances, and that petty cops or no this killer would have to be stopped. Everyone murmured their agreement, even as they were all stuffed within an inch of each other. Rossi in particular looked very uncomfortable, as he practically had to lean into the uncaring side of Gideon (who didn't seem to notice his neighbor's discomfort, or if he did, made no indication that he cared). The air in the room was quickly heating up from the presence of all the bodies.

To Emily's relief, she and Morgan were sent out on the town within minutes, and breathed the fresh air with a very deep sense of relief –although she regretted having to leave Spencer behind in the little room, barely inches away from the man trying to ruin his life. She wondered briefly if she could request to stay behind and help with his profile, and have JJ take her place, but then she remembered that everyone (well, almost everyone) knew about them now. Such a request would be extremely transparent, and assumed to be motivated by romantic intent. She wished she could prove that she was above frolicking on the job, but since she'd actually been caught frolicking on the job already, it didn't seem terribly likely.

The houses they visited were bereft of any real clues. There was DNA evidence, yes, as this wasn't a particularly bright unsub, but it matched no criminal records. Whoever this guy was (and they felt certain it was a man), he'd had an entirely clean slate before the break-ins started. Morgan hypothesized this was because he'd actually been a good citizen, not because he'd never been caught. She was inclined to agree; someone this sloppy would have had a slowly escalating list of crimes recorded, unless he actually was legitimately innocent.

The houses that had been empty at the time of robbery were a bit more interesting; the DNA matched, so it was for certain the same guy, but more things were stolen. CD players, laptops, jewelry. As if the people he'd run into had distracted him, and the theft was no longer necessary. Or perhaps the knowledge (however lucid that knowledge might be, and erratic behaviour like this suggested not) that he'd just committed murder flustered him and sent him on the run before he could fill his pockets. In any case, there was definitely something to be said about his lack of attention span.

They returned to the police station within three hours, not empty-handed but feeling as if they had missed something all the same. Hotch was waiting for them.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Not really. We have some interesting ideas on his temperament, but without a record there's nothing to help us find him—."

They explained in detail the way the DNA led to no criminal record, and the seemingly anxious nature of his attacks (which partially explained the brutality of the killings –motivated by panic perhaps, and not rage?). "So what we're thinking is that he's suffered some kind of mental breakdown?" Hotch asked.

"No shit," a passing cop said, elbowing his partner. "The psycho killer has 'suffered a mental breakdown.' And here we were thinking he must have been totally sane."

The pair disappeared into the station, laughing. Hotch didn't react, but she could see anger starting to burn in his eyes.

"You going to talk to the Captain again?"

"No point. We can't burn the bridges here…if I complain again they may just send us away, and then this guy will be free to kill more people," he sighed. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but I think I'm beginning to see why they're having such trouble catching him. This police force is….lax."

Emily and Morgan nodded their muted agreement, and then followed their leader back inside and to the little room. Unfriendly eyes of the local cops followed them the whole way.

_**XxXxX**_

It was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable cases she'd ever worked. In an attempt to keep morale high, Hotch was actually giving everyone time in the field, so nobody would have to spend the whole case in the little room. They went in pairs over the next two days, and while the case itself was going swimmingly –they were closing in on the unsub, who strangely enough hadn't launched any more attacks in the time since they'd arrived—this meant she spent a good deal of time scrunched into the little room. Garcia watched them from the computer screen, smiling pityingly at them.

The room was hot, for one thing. For another, she was having a bit of trouble getting over this particular bout of jetlag, perhaps because she'd never really been given the chance to get comfortable (the hotel they'd been booked was no great shakes either –it was a small town, compared to the places they usually visited. Her and JJ had to bunk together, which for propriety's sake meant absolutely no night time visits from Spencer). Her eyes kept drooping, but she knew if she dozed off she'd either fall over onto Spencer or Gideon.

It also didn't help that she was sandwiched between the two, this particular day.

Having Spencer so close was a bit of a blessing and a curse –she enjoyed his company, even in work form where things had to be kept tepid between them, but it felt awkward and even a little sleazy with everyone else packed in with them like sardines. Particularly Gideon, who to her senses always faintly smelled like sweat and booze, but perhaps that was just her imagination talking, fueled by her slight distaste for the man.

The other problem was…

It was very distracting to have someone you were planning to sleep with for the first time practically sitting in your lap while you were working…

The case dragged on and on, coming together at a steady but tortuously slow pace, and she had nothing to do but keep her head down and wait it out.

_**XxXxX**_

By the third day it was starting to get ridiculous.

With some hesitation, Hotch sent them out together as a pair for the first time, to interview family members of the victims who until now had opted to keep quiet. It would be suspicious to never pair them together, but so were the weirdly impish glances the team kept shooting them as they shuffled their way out of the little room. Not subtle.

The cops ignored them now. Most of them thought the case was going cold; the previously ravenous killer had not been heard from in days, with nary even a call reporting a lurker. It was like he knew they were in town. Truthfully, this made things a little harder on the team; it was perhaps ninety percent of the reason they were having such trouble catching him. The bright side was, nobody was dying anymore. But who was to say he hadn't just packed up and started again somewhere else?

"I think this may just be the least eventful case I've ever had with the BAU," Emily said, driving them down to family's house. The suburban landscapes in this town were clean and perky, and, according to Reid, completely devoid of outwardly apparent security systems. Even now.

"I've had one more boring. The unsub turned himself in the day we got there."

"Really?"

"Yeah, in my first year. He heard the FBI was coming and was too nervous to continue. Some serial killers just aren't up to the job, I guess."

"You think this is something similar? Sans the turning himself in thing, I mean."

"Something like that. I'll think we'll find out soon," he said.

She hoped so. It was never good when they were asked to leave before they'd caught anybody (the media always had a field day with it –"look how ineffectual profilers are! Should the government be spending our tax dollars on psychological voodoo?"), but the wind seemed to be blowing in that direction.

With this much stress on their shoulders, they didn't dare talk about more personal matters. Not even when they were alone.

_**XxXxX**_

That night at one in the morning it became very apparent why the unsub had ended his killing spree. He was dead.

Their break came in when his neighbor called for an ambulance. She said the man who lived next to her had been acting very strangely, staying up late into the night, apparently working on his garden (or so she assumed…all she knew was that his work involved a shovel). The next day, with the heat, an extremely bad smell had started to emerge from the house, and though she knew he was inside, he didn't come to the door no matter how hard she knocked. She went around the side windows (she told them later) and peered inside, knocking more as she went. The TV was still on, and that, she said, was when she knew something was up. Her neighbor –Liam Gruber—was the greenest man she'd ever known, and he would have never left his TV and lights on for hours at a time if he didn't need them to be. The ambulance had gone and knocked down the door, and found the body hanging from the basement ceiling.

It was Reid who made the connection to their unsub. He overheard two officers gossiping about how the deadbeat on Parker Street had offed himself, and something had clicked in his head. Emily was next to him when it happened, and it was like a light had suddenly turned on behind his eyes. Then he was running to the little room. She followed, bemused, and found him practically sprawled on the table (the rest of the team all had their hands up in the air, apparently startled, and poor Garcia the laptop was knocked into Gideon's lap), his face an inch away from his paper map.

"Parker street!" he exclaimed. "That's right in the middle of my geographical profile! Severe mental breakdown!"

"I'll make them take a DNA swab," Emily said, and was out the door, leaving her boyfriend to explain his epiphany to the rest of them.

_**XxXxX**_

Liam Gruber lost everything just over two months ago, when his children were taken away from him by social services and most everything he owned was repossessed. He was unemployed. He was broke. He was desperate.

Something had snapped in him, and (from what they could piece together now that they knew who their unsub was) to him it seemed perfectly reasonable to steal expensive items and try to sell them. Maybe he thought he could get his children back if he raised enough money.

"What about the murders, then?" The police chief asked. "How did that help him?"

It didn't. Hotch explained in a cool authoritative voice that made the Chief prickle –he was too disorganized, to extracted from reality, to scope out proper houses to rob. If the house was empty, it was likely pure luck. If it was occupied, well…he knew that he'd never get his kids back if he was caught. So the witnesses were removed.

On another hunch by Reid, they dug up Gruber's 'garden' and found all of the stolen goods. They'd also found a notebook, filled with half-hearted attempts to price his hauls. He'd never actually gotten around to selling anything. The scrawl was messy and didn't follow the margins –Reid read guilt in his handwriting. A lot of it.

"For his kids or for the people he killed?" Emily asked. Nobody answered. There was no way of knowing.

When they'd finished delivering this final profile to the police chief, all he had to say was, "Well, good. It took you almost a week to catch a man who was swinging in the same place the whole time. Mighty glad we called ye. Now you best leave."

They left on that note, making a beeline for the jet. Emily thought she saw a journalist lurking in one of the bushes outside the station, and ducked her head. Nobody came out of this one looking good.

_**XxXxX**_

On the jet ride home, things finally started to unwind. The case, the horrible, horrible case, was over. The unfriendly and disdainful cops were behind them. She had a night with Spencer to look forward to.

The pair of them played cards the whole way back, and she allowed herself to be flirty –let Gideon see! It was just part of her game face. The promise of the evening to come hovered between them, vibrating with tension. When they landed back at the BAU, it was to be a simple matter of just dropping tomorrow's paperwork off at their desks and heading out the door.

But then, just as everyone was head towards the elevator:

"Wait!" JJ called, sprinting up to them. The group (her, Spencer, Morgan, and Rossi) stopped, bewildered. Their media liaison was out of breath, and a look of repressed frustration was in her eyes.

"I'm sorry guys, we have to get back on the jet. There's this town in Ohio…"

Emily looked at Spencer, and he was looking at her. The tension between them reached a crescendo, and sputtered to a halt.

_**XxXxX**_


	22. Chapter 21: Stress Relief

**XxXxX**

** Chapter Twenty One: Stress Relief**

** XxXxX**

The BAU offices looked like a paradise retreat three days later. The second case was easier, but uglier; a series of rape/murders that Emily would sooner forget. Except you never forgot those ones. Never. Still, coming home was going to feel like sinking into a warm bath.

"Please tell me you're not making us stay to do the paperwork this time," Morgan groaned in Hotch's direction as they rose in the elevator.

"Given the circumstances, perhaps it would be better if we went home comparatively early," Hotch said. It was twelve thirty at night.

Looking at their leader, it was not hard to see why he had complied with Morgan's whining so easily. He hadn't seen his son in more than a week. It showed in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he stared forward into nothing. It was times like this when Emily felt at least a little grateful that she didn't have any attachments like that to haunt her.

Even though, now, that was partially untrue.

"Hallelujah!" Morgan cheered, scooping Garcia under his arm. "We're finally going home, baby!"

"Mmm, yes," she said, pointedly removing his arm from her shoulder –more jokingly then anything, as she still held onto his hand as if they were an old married couple. "I'm sure Kevin will be delighted."

JJ, too, seemed to be carrying a heavy weight on her shoulders. Like Hotch, she no doubt wanted nothing more then to return to her son. And Will.

She heard Spencer's voice from somewhere behind her: "Um, JJ, how likely do you think it is that we'll have another case soon?"

"You know I can't predict that Spence."

"But just say." Emily couldn't help but smile at the urgency in his voice. That same urgency she'd been feeling for days.

"Well, then on a hunch…" JJ smiled, and Emily felt sure she saw her glance in her direction. "I think we might just have the next week or so at home. IF nothing else comes up!" she added quickly to her, Morgan, and Garcia's sudden shout of jubilation.

The elevator opened at their floor, but all they needed to do was drop off their papers and then leave.

"Somebody tell David and Gideon about the change of plans when they come up," Hotch said, and then made a beeline for his office. The rest of the group moved towards their own desks, each beaming.

When everything had been sorted out, Emily was walking back to the elevators with Spencer, and the doors opened before they could get to them. Rossi stepped out into the hall, looking darkly amused.

"Change of plans!" she said. "We're leaving early tonight. Too long on the road for everyone, I think."

"_Early_," Rossi snorted.

"Where's Gideon?" Reid asked suddenly.

"Jason just decided for himself that he'd been on the road too long, I suppose. He turned around and left while we were waiting for the second elevator."

Emily thought this was a little rude, considering the rest of them were prepared (though not thrilled) to spend hours more on the job if Hotch asked them to. But there seemed to be more going on here; Rossi shot Spencer a meaningful look, and when she looked at Spencer, he was wearing his "I am processing deep information that would probably blow your tiny mind" face.

On the way out to the car (the team had spread the 'casual' gossip…or rather, Garcia had spread the gossip that they had decided to carpool together, meaning no one really cared if they drove home together every night anymore. The advantages of having a highly skilled team backing you up were beginning to show) she noticed that Spencer seemed to be stuck in a flux of emotions. This was often the way when Gideon was involved. She weighed her options as she got behind the wheel and decided that no, she wasn't going to ask him what was wrong –at least not yet.

"So ah…" he said as they zipped down the empty roads. "Are we going to….tonight?"

Ah, the healing properties of the promise of sex.

"Not tonight if you don't mind," she said, trying to force down her own disappointment. When Spencer looked at her questioningly (why would they wait any longer when they'd already been forced to stand at least three feet apart at all times for over a week?), she said: "Look, remember when you once told me that you wanted to keep the cases and what happened between us separate? Well we just came back from catching…"

"A sex criminal," he said. "Right. Sorry."

"It doesn't bother you?" she asked.

"It does now that you've brought it up," he said, a bit sheepishly.

"Sorry," she said, but they were both smiling. With anyone else rejection would have been awkward as hell. But not with Reid.

"Tomorrow." She said decisively. "Tomorrow at some point there will be sexing."

"OK," he said.

"Whose house?" she asked.

"Um, yours. I always feel kind of suffocated at my house these days."

That was interesting. He'd never mentioned feeling suffocated at his house before. Perhaps he was spending too much time at hers. However, she did have the larger and, well, comfier bed.

"Good then, less driving for me," she said. "Since I'm taking you home with me and all. I'm planning to keep you."

He smiled shyly, apparently pleased by her words. She chuckled and moved on to other topics.

And they both prayed nothing would happen to change their plans this time.

**_XxXxX_**

The next day was bright and sunny; the ideal Saturday. The sky was clear blue out the window next to the bed, with no clouds in sight. The slow rush of morning traffic sounded , to her sleepy ears, like ocean waves. Warped, pollution-making ocean waves. Anyway.

"Morning," she said to the skinny lump next to her. Spencer's prone form didn't move or react in any way; still asleep then. It was a testament to how exhausting the last two mission had been that Spencer was actually knocked out cold; he was normally a very light sleeper, and was regular enough with his sleeping schedule that a profiler may suspect he'd been institutionalized. So instead of trying to wake him she slipped out of bed, threw on a morning robe and padded down into the kitchen to make breakfast. The smell of bacon, if nothing else, was sure to rouse him.

Sure enough, as soon as the meat started sizzling he appeared in the kitchen door, all yawns and bed head. She motioned for him to sit, and he obeyed. Two minutes later a pile of inexpertly scrambled eggs and bacon scraped onto a plate and placed in front of the sleepy genius. He looked down at them and said:

"You know…I only just realized now how sick I was of continental breakfast."

The rest of the day was similarly quiet. They ate their breakfast, took turns using the shower while the other watched the morning news. Spencer almost never watched TV, and when Emily returned to him with her hair wrapped in a towel, she found him open-mouthed horrified at the things he was seeing.

"But hon," she said. "You study murderers for a living."

"Only serial killers, which are exceptionally rare," he said. "not to mention usually heavily psychotic or otherwise ill. What are these people's excuse? Who steals video game consoles?"

It was amazing how sheltered someone could be while simultaneously being so exposed to the worst humanity had the offer. Spencer was a walking bundle of contradictions. But it's not like they didn't already know this.

They decided to go out to lunch, and went out to the Japanese restaurant; the one where they threw food at you, the location of their first ever 'date'….if you could call it a date, which they were wont to do in retrospect. Getting together seemed like was inevitable now that they looked back on it. And they did, there at the counter while they watched their chef whirl fish around like it was some sort of talent show audition, in between sessions of trying to teach Spencer yet again how to properly wield chopsticks. They reflected on the first date, the first visit at her place for drinks, the first time he came to her for help with one of his cravings. She apologized again for leaving him to vacation with her family, but he said it was fine –he understood. And it wasn't like it hadn't all worked out.

When the food came the conversation turned to the house. The one with the creaky floor and the spider's webs and the newspapers clipping. The house that nearly killed them both, the house they'd survived hand in hand. Then after awhile they just sat and ate in silence, content to enjoy the feeling of the sun and each other's presence. That case –and all other cases, even the ones they'd just returned from—felt far away right now.

It felt, in short, like they had slipped out of their own dimension and landed temporarily in one where they had a normal life. No office politics, no secrets, no murderers to harsh your mellow. It was nice.

Emily thanked the Japanese chef with a small bow of the head as they left, hearing him mumble "Nice couple, very nice couple," in their direction.

**_XxXxX_**

It was barely four in the afternoon when they stepped back into what was beginning to feel like _their_ house. Their belly was full of food and the day was only just beginning to lose its steamy afternoon heat. But Emily had waited long enough.

Spencer closed the door behind them, only to turn and find himself an inch away from her face. He started, but it was a pleased sort of start, as if he'd been expecting it and was just happy it was actually happening. Her hands pressed into his chest and pushed him into the door, and she brought her lips to his. They'd not been able to do this in what felt like forever. A weird sort of buzz was happening between her ears, like she'd been drinking heavily, even though she hadn't been.

Her hands moved from his chest to the door on either side of him, effectively trapping him against the wall. Not like he was going to be trying to get away. HIS arms were wrapping around her, sliding down her back.

"Please tell me," he murmured against her lips. "That you have condoms this time?"

"Ha. Yes." She breathed. "I just need to get them out of my go bag."

He leaned back long enough for a puzzled look, but then returned to what he was doing with renewed enthusiasm.

She was glad he didn't ask why the condoms were stuffed in a pair of rolled up socks at the bottom of her go bag. It would have been a little embarrassing to explain that she'd been awake late at night, one of those nights when she'd been rooming with JJ, unable to think of anything but sex with Spencer. She initially left the room just because thinking these things in such close quarters with her co-worker seemed somewhat inappropriate, and sat in the lobby for awhile. Then she got up to have a late night walk. Then she found herself at a nearby convenience store, buying handfuls of condoms. The town was small enough that the guy behind the counter seemed to have a good idea who she was, and he narrowed his eyes and muttered something about tax dollars, and she felt a bit like a guy stuffing condoms in his tux pockets on prom night. At the time her justification was, hey, she couldn't have sex, but she could be as prepared as hell for the time when she could. She was already back on the pill.

Shoes were kicked off and then she pushed herself off of the door, snatching his hand in the process. She noticed as she pulled him away from the foyer and up the stairs that his eyes were wide and his breathing was exceptionally heavy. As he'd been the night she'd first given him any sort of sexual experience.

Halfway up the stairs she felt her own heart rate start to climb, and for one wild second she thought it was because of the climb –how out of shape could she possibly be, with all the running she did?—but then she realized, it was because she was nervous as hell. Just as she'd been when they'd first initially agreed to sleep with each other, over a week ago. Then as now she could see no real reason why.

Now they were approaching her door, and his hand was crushing hers in a bit of a vice grip, but she held on, leading the way. Sweat was beginning to build on his palm. She understood. The temperature in the room did seem to be mysteriously rising.

When the door to the room was open, she turned and kissed him again, but this time he wasn't so energetic.

"Hey, don't be nervous," she said, even as her own voice warbled. He looked at her with surprise.

"Are _you_ nervous?"

"Of course I am," she said, even though she felt there was no 'of course' about it. But she did not want that look of relief on his face to be washed away. Better to tell the truth, even if it did sort of injure her pride.

She hadn't been nervous to be with a man in over ten years.

"So," she said, suddenly unsure of where to take this from here. "How do you ah…want the room to be?"

He blinked. "It can be different ways?"

"Yeah. Lights on, lights off, under covers, over, candles, no candles…"

She stopped there. Was she really suggesting lighting candles? What was this, harlequin?

Spencer seemed to interpret her offhand suggestions as some sort of litmus checklist.

"Lights off, over covers, and no candles," he said. "Er, unless you'd prefer something else?"

"No no, that combination is fine."

"Any other details?"

"I think that's everything important."

Except…

"I'll just get the condoms," she said brightly, releasing his hand and turning away from him. Her go bag was on her dresser by the mirror side, overstuffed as always. She heard Spencer's carpet-muffled footsteps as he moved towards the bed. Would he lie down? Would he start undressing?

Getting to the condoms required a lot of digging through and removing unfolded chunks of clothing, as well as the checking of several pairs of socks (she couldn't remember which pair she stuffed them in, since all her socks tended to look the same anyway), but find them she eventually did, all six of them. The corner store didn't seem to sell packs of them, only individual condoms, so she shoved her fist in the plastic jar they were contained in and bought whatever came up in her hand and called it good.

Except then, with her hand halfway to her wallet, she'd remembered about how Spencer was always careful not to wear latex gloves and said, "Ah, sorry sir, I just remembered I need non-latex. Do you carry those?"

The cashier narrowed his eyes at her, as if wondering what kind of kinky shit she was up to, and then reached under the counter and pulled out a second plastic jar of condoms. Specifically non-latex. She thanked him and repeated the hand-dunking process, ending up with the six she carried now.

She turned around, all six in hand (not that she thought they'd be needing all them. Maybe two of them, if they were feeling spunky), and saw Spencer standing at the end of her bed, staring down at the sheets.

Something about this was endearing, and she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him in a backwards hug. He looked down at her hands and plucked one of the condoms out of her grasp. She pressed her forehead into his back while he read the instructions.

"I've never worn one of these," he said.

"I got the non-latex ones, since you're allergic," she said. Privately she thanked whatever deity had made sure that backwater even carried non-latex condoms.

"I'm glad you remembered," he said. "Do we really need so many?"

"Well that entirely depends," she said, in her most well practiced sexy purr. It was hard to pull off considering her legs seemed about to fall out from underneath her. Regardless, it elicited the desired response from her partner –she felt him shiver from what seemed like his toes to his ears.

He turned and was in her arms again, and this time he kissed her.. And maybe she could live with being nervous. Maybe it was weird and unexpected, but maybe this wasn't the time to be the more experienced, sexy older lady. Maybe this was the time to be on his level. She _was_ on his level, and to fake otherwise would be insulting.

He pulled her down on top of him, and she carelessly tossed the little plastic packets to one pillow while she retraced the now familiar contours of his neck with her lips. His fingers were working at the buttons on her shirt as she did this, and she felt them shaking. Or maybe she was shaking against his fingers? Did it really matter? How narcissistic was she to ever think that it mattered?

Her shirt was off first, then his, then her pants and panties, and then she was reaching for the light switch –best it be off early, to give their eyes the time to adjust. It went out with a click and then all she could see was the brightness of his eyes, catching what little light came in from the streets outside. Things were more tactile now –the feel of the Egyptian cotton sheets under palms of her hands, the familiar taste of his lips, the smell of his skin.

When her hands descended to his belt he lifted himself up until his elbows and slid further up the bed, to where he could rest his head on the pillows. The sound of condoms sliding against each other because of this shift in weight reminded her of their existence: right. Sort of important. She picked one up and pressed it into his palm, for him to keep until they needed it.

"I'll put it on for you," she said as she heard him breath in, about to voice his concerns about screwing it up.

She once again had a moment where she wasn't sure who was shaking, him or her …and soon she realized why she was shaking at all.

The first time she'd had sex, her partner knew how to put one on. As easy as putting on a glove. He'd done it before, and he did it quickly. At the time she thought it was amazing that he was willing to wear one at all –a few of her later partners were not so forward thinking (Eddie came to mind, painfully, as he sometimes did). But it was a mechanical gesture, just as the rest of the experience was. She'd may as well been his own hand for the involvement –or pleasure—she'd had.

She was nervous because while she had learned and grown from her own experiences, and could not truly regret them as they'd made her who she was…she did not want Spencer to have to learn and grow in precisely the way she had. She had to get this right, it had to be perfect on the first try. You only ever get one First Try.

Furthermore, he was trusting her not to screw this up. There was a silent agreement that she was to be on top –she wasn't sure why, but she wasn't complaining—and this demonstrated a certain amount of surrender (though she wished there were a better word for it) that she simply had never seen or experienced before in a man. At least, not any man she'd ever dated. They all tended to be controlling pricks.

It was weird not to be with a controlling prick.

Spencer was looking up at her through the dark. She couldn't see his expression, but noticed that his head was tilted to one side. Wondering why she had paused so long, no doubt.

"Is everything all right?" he whispered.

"Yes," she said.

"Good."

She smiled.

"Ok," she said, hands descending again to his belt, delighting in the way this sent shivers through his body. "I say we start with what's familiar, and then work from there. Deal?"

"Deal," he said huskily.

His pants came off, and then his hand came up to her bra…and rested there.

His hand was on her scar. It shocked her for a moment; she always forgot it was there until her clothes were off. He had so far been kind enough to pretend not to notice it until now. Now he was tracing his fingers along it, memorizing it.

When they'd reminisced earlier about how they'd gotten together, they'd left this part out. The bullet that started it all. The moment that happened so fast.

She placed her hand over his, holding it there. It was ugly, and it had been painful once. But it was part of it.

**_XxXxX_**


	23. Chapter 22: The Report

_**XxXxX**_

** Chapter Twenty Two: The Report**

** _XxXxX_**

Today was the day.

Reid could barely keep still at his desk –it didn't help that he had finished his work hours ago—twitching and jostling his keyboard with his knees. His body craved for dilaudid as a carnal response to the stress, but it was easy enough to ignore. His cravings were happening less and less, since Emily. Less simple to handle was the fact that the future of his career was being decided today, and he probably wasn't even going to be there for it.

Hotch was handing in his final report to Strauss today.

"Easy, kid," Morgan said, not even looking up from his screen. "I can't think with all your vibrating over there."

"I was late yesterday," he squeaked miserably. "I'm getting fired for sure."

"You are not. 'Sides, Gideon's been late all week," Morgan said.

Reid clammed up, not wanting to argue about Gideon.

"Hotch knows you're what this team needs," Emily said, making Morgan emit a mocking 'awwww' and then grinned at both of them. Reid wished his friend knew subtlety.

If Reid thought about it rationally, he saw that his work had been good over the course of his trial period, give or take the occasional hiccup. A few cases he'd actually been instrumental in solving. But that wasn't really the issue; no one had ever questioned his abilities. It was his recklessness everyone worried about. And reckless he had been.

Getting himself locked in the torture basement. Jumping on the armed runaway. Making out with Emily in the bullpen…

That last one was not going to be reported (Hotch had assured him of that, and discussed with him how he was planning with Garcia to allow their relationship to be slowly and organically revealed to the rest of the organization, for a better chance at acceptance. Also, this was to take place well after this whole ordeal of the trial was over), but the others could have been enough. Gideon did much more field work than him. Gideon sometimes saw connections in the way people handled each other that he missed, being, well, him.

But Gideon wasn't part of the team anymore, not really. He'd never gotten around to rebuilding those bridges. It had been strange…like the seven of them were being tailed by a ghost these past few months. A quiet, slightly condescending, but undeniably brilliant ghost.

No, there was no way he was going to sit still. He didn't even have any articles to write. He was going to see Hotch.

"Don't do it," Morgan said, seeing him stand. He didn't listen.

He was standing outside Hotch's office when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. David Rossi was giving him a stern, but understanding look, and he immediately felt embarrassed.

"You can't go in there," Rossi said.

"I know."

"He has to give a fair report. As fair as he can, in his situation."

"Yeah."

"Don't make it harder on him then it has to be," and then the older profiler nodded over the office-workers heads, to where Morgan and Emily were staring at them. Reid nodded and slouched back to his desk thinking, this is exactly what I'm going to get fired for. I never think this stuff through.

XxXxX

At around two in the afternoon, the door to Hotch's office opened. Reid gripped the sides of his chair and tried to pretend like he wasn't staring; there nothing he could glean from the expression on his leader's face, just that same no-nonsense scowl as ever. He had two folders in his hand. At a brisk pace, he was away and moving towards Strauss's office, head held high.

Reid exhaled. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath.

"Do you think she'll decide today, or some other time?" he asked to no one in particular, his voice unexpectedly mouse-like.

"I dunno," Morgan said. "Look, I'm telling you, you're golden. You were practically born to do this."

"I'm unreliable and prone to emotional outbursts."

"Yeah, well, I have commitment issues and hold others to impossible standards," he raised his eyebrows. "I can self-profile too, you know."

"You also reject authority," Reid muttered.

"See? Born for this job. It's gonna be fine."

Reid looked up, past Morgan and at Emily. She didn't seem quite as confident as their friend. He didn't take this as an insult; on the contrary, he appreciated her realism. Gideon was a force to reckoned with, no matter what was going on with him lately.

Gideon…

It was hard to pin down how he felt about the man anymore. For so long he'd been off his radar, an unpleasant peripheral while they were out on a case, and nothing more. It's not like he ever actually saw him around the office. He even had the sneaking suspicion that he used a completely different set of elevators, just for the purpose of avoiding them all. Especially him. Somehow he knew this. Especially him.

But lately the question of Gideon had become more alarming. He was late for work. He was early to leave. He spoke to no one, sometimes went entire meetings without saying a word. On the cases he was fantastic; not the old Gideon, but like a computer that had been programmed with his particular logic. It arrived at the same conclusions, but exhibited nothing human. No attachments, no emotions. Barely even an interest in the mysteries he was solving. It was so radically different than not only the Gideon from years ago, but the Gideon from just the beginning of this insane test. That Gideon had been aiming for the gold. He had perfect attendance, he put his heart and soul into every scrap of evidence. What happened?

More disturbing still, Emily once mentioned she could smell the aroma of booze lingering on him. Reid never stood close enough to verify this, but he took her at her word.

In the end, he did not know whether to feel glee at the apparent downfall of the man who seemed to be out to cause him misery, or concern over the well-being of what was once his closest friend. It seemed pathetic to not know, even now.

All this would matter to Hotch, who cared about the synergy of the team, about the family dynamic. But it was not Hotch's decision to make.

**_XxXxX_**

Half an hour after that, Hotch reappeared. The two folders were conspicuously gone. Was Strauss reading them right now?

"Reid," Hotch called, startling him "Come to my office please."

Good news? Bad news? Would he even be _able_ to stand?

He wobbled to his feet, perhaps breaking several laws of physics as he managed not to fall on his face, and practically tripped his way up the stairs and to the office. Rossi's door was closed this time, but he could hear no movement coming from within. Did he just wait silently for the troubled to pass by and then pounce on them?

Hotch was standing by his desk.

"Sit," he ordered. Reid did.

"I just wanted to tell you that it's out of my hands now. Strauss may be informed by my reports, but not necessarily swayed."

"I know, sir."

"That said," Hotch went on, taking a seat himself. "I am very confident that you will be keeping your job."

His heart leapt…but he didn't want to believe it yet. Not yet. "Why?"

"I was honest, that's why," he said simply. "Your performance, while…sometimes raising some questions, was never the less consistently good and never detrimental. At least not to anything but your own health. You are a vital member of the team. Gideon started out strong, and then seemed to burn out," a wry smile, which Hotch probably thought of as friendly and reassuring, appeared on the Supervisor's face. "I think it might be time for him to retire, actually. The man is slowing down."

Reid tried not to get his hopes up. It wasn't worth the fall if all this turned out to be wishful thinking.

"But it's like you said," he said, trying to sound calm and neutral about the subject, and not let on that he felt like he was going to cry at any second. "It's not your decision. Strauss can make whatever decision she likes. And she hates me. She hates you."

"I won't divulge my opinion on the matter," Hotch said, diplomatically. "But I will say that Erin Strauss is above all concerned with the welfare of the BAU. She would never knowingly do anything that would harm the productivity of this or any other team, whatever her personal feelings may be."

"OK." It was all he could really say to that. It was difficult to imagine the blond she-devil with any sort of noble qualities, but he hadn't known her as long as Hotch had. He could barely say he knew her at all, really.

"I take it you're finished your work already?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything else you could do to stay occupied? Before you worry yourself to death?"

"Er, not really, no."

"Take these," Hotch said, handing him a pile of paper off his own desk. "I hate doing these, and you'll probably get it done in five minutes. I won't bother explaining, you can figure it out. Try not to get too stressed."

A little too late for that, he thought. But he thanked Hotch for the distraction and headed back out to his desk.

Strauss never called on him that day.

**_XxXxX_**

When Reid told Emily what Hotch had said when they got home, she practically exploded with happiness. All her cherished realism seemed to be thrown out the door –or perhaps she was just as relieved as he probably ought to be feeling.

"That settles it then!" she exclaimed. "You're staying!"

"Maybe."

"What do you mean, maybe? You're better for us! You always have been."

"I just…"

"No, listen," she said, grabbing his chin and making him meet her eyes. "It's going to be fine. Everything."

He stared at her for a few seconds…and then, without thinking, leapt into her arms, kissing her ferociously.

They left their clothes on the kitchen floor, where they'd been about to make coffee, as they raced upstairs to the bedroom.

**_XxXxX_**

A phone call came in the middle of the night, making Reid's eyes snap open, instantly wide awake. He looked over to his side at Emily, whose blankets had slid down and left her breasts exposed. The street-lights leaking through the curtains bleached them white. His body could still clearly remember the feel of hers, those breasts against his chest, her legs wrapped around his waist, warmth; for all he knew their clothes were still laying, abandoned, next to the stove. She was so deeply asleep, her thick black eye-lashes didn't even flutter at the sound of the phone. Such was the scattered nature of his thoughts between the first and second ring.

The proper thing to do would be to wake Emily up and have her answer it. It was her house, after all. But he couldn't bear to wake her up, not when she looked so peaceful, not when it was already…(he looked at the clock)…three in the morning. So instead he leaned very carefully over her body and took the phone from its spot on her bedside table, and hit talk.

"Hello?" he said as softly as he could without whispering.

There was no answer. But Reid could very clearly hear the sound of labored breathing. A snuffle. "Hello?" he repeated, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice.

But the person didn't answer. He pulled the phone away from his ear to look at the caller ID, but it said only 'Caller Unknown.' The area code on the number was not local, either.

Cautiously he put the speaker back to his ear, and said clearly (for the person was still there, breathing and apparently holding in some sort of difficult emotion), "Who is this? Why are you calling so late at night?"

They remained on the line just long enough for him to think they were going to answer, and then the call disconnected with a click.

Reid dropped the hand holding the phone to the bed, staring straight into the darkness before him, thoroughly unnerved. There was no use trying to get back to sleep now –he was way too creeped out. Waking Emily up was tempting, but he resisted that urge, as well as the urge to turn on any lights, although his old fear of the dark was starting to kick back in. So instead he sat up, leaning against the wall by the sleeping form of his lover, staring at the bedroom door and feeling like the world's most inadequate guard-dog.

**_XxXxX_**

When he told Emily of the phone call the next morning, she seemed initially disturbed, but then her own practicality seemed to erase anything distressing about the incident.

"It was probably just a drunk who dialed the wrong number," she said over the brim of her first coffee. "You get things like that sometimes, and they're too embarrassed to just say they made a mistake and they hang up."

"I guess," he said, entirely unconvinced. For some reason he felt certain that this number had been called deliberately, though he couldn't pin precisely why. Probably just his over-active imagination at work, his familiarity with the world of dangerous crazy people. It was entirely possible –and even much more likely—that the caller was actually a harmless drunk person instead. And yet.

Emily saw the look on his face and spoke up, "I'm telling you it was nothing; you didn't have to stay up all night like that either. You have enough stuff on your plate without being exhausted."

Ah, but of course he already knew this. Because of that phone call, he was barely stifling a yawn every other second. No doubt Strauss would choose today to call him in for an interview, and he'd have no choice but to show up with black rings under his eyes and the gaunt, sagging expression of a man who has stared at a freaking door all night. If she hadn't already done so, Strauss would probably decide to have him fired then and there for not being enthusiastic enough. Or something. He was tired.

Emily got up to go check on their breakfast, brushing his knee with her fingertips as she passed. To his surprise he felt almost instant arousal –perhaps it was the morning sun, or his body looking for an outlet to all this stress, but within seconds he was 'at attention' and his lips twitched with a need to be on her. He stood and followed her around the counter, to where she stood in front of the stove, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She paused in her pokings at the food, and he kissed the side of her neck, once, like a question mark.

"I can make time for that, if you want," she said in a mock-official tone. He reached around her and switched off the burners, and began to walk backwards towards the hallway, towards the stairs, pulling her along with him as he went.

**_XxXxX_**

By now the carpool story had been adequately circulated that Reid and Emily could drive into Quantico without self-consciousness. It was a warm fall day, and so they had the car windows rolled down, and Reid actually even waved at a few office workers he recognized as they herded up through the parking lot to the building. They smiled and waved back, and he breathed deep the smell of the autumn air –Halloween soon. His favorite holiday. The first time he would ever spend it with Emily, as a couple. They'd shared their first shower together as a couple just this morning, after the rather urgent stress-induced sex had left them both with a record-breaking glaze of sweat and only twenty minutes to get ready for work. He'd found it difficult to be particularly pessimistic since then.

Even about the Strauss thing.

"You know," he said to Emily as they turned into her reserved spot. "I'm actually feeling pretty good about today."

"I would hope so."

He grinned sheepishly, but again had to stifle a yawn. The one bad outcome was that it all hadn't helped his tiredness any.

But then they both left the car, and their sleepy, happy world had to be momentarily left behind. They walked up to the building, maintaining their uniform three foot distance from each other at all times. Just friends, just co-workers. Nothing to see here.

Someone was standing in the doorway, facing outwards into the parking lot, hands in his pockets and apparently waiting for someone. Reid squinted against the bright sunlight, feeling his stomach twist –Hotch, perhaps, with news, or just someone else unrelated to his problems?

They got closer, and he no longer had to squint. Not Hotch. Gideon.

It soon became apparent that HE was the person Gideon was waiting for. The older man's gaze was fixed on his face. Despite the barrier between them, he felt Emily draw closer to him, protectively. Gideon didn't seem to react to this motion, even though it should have spilled everything to any competent profiler.

The brightness of the day was sucked away as Reid realized. He knew. Gideon knew about them.

"We need to talk," the older agent said to his former protégé. The two men stared at each other, one disbelieving, one pitying, and Emily stood by, invisible to both of them.

**_XxXxX_**

It was worse then he'd originally thought. Gideon explained in neutral tones; he knew about their relationship. Had suspected it for some time. It was against protocol. It was a mark against Reid in their evaluation that he knew Hotch would never report. So he took the liberty of doing so himself.

So now Strauss knew too.

"What if it wasn't true?" Reid blurted out, unable to believe the arrogance, the cunning, of the man before him. "You just had a _feeling_! You could have been _wrong_!"

"We both know I wouldn't make that kind of mistake," Gideon said, his voice devoid of any trace of pride. If anything, he sounded weary of his own competence. The wind blew and for the first time Reid could smell it –the stench of alcohol that lingered in the man's skin. "Besides, I had a very compelling piece of evidence to base my assumptions on."

A compelling piece of evidence? There was no way he could have witnessed the bullpen makeout, so what was he…

Oh.

"It was you on the phone last night," he said. He'd picked up the phone, in the middle of the night, at his female co-workers house. Gideon hadn't even needed to say a thing; the sound of his voice was all he needed to know. Reid wanted to chastise himself for being so stupid, but it could have been Hotch, they could have been called in for a case, and Emily had looked so peaceful…

"Yes."

"You fucking asshole," he said, unable to contain himself. His raised voice caused some of the others flooding in the building to peer over at him, startled. But none of them said anything. Perhaps they were intimidated by the presence of one of the greatest profilers ever, or else they knew that if Reid was cursing things were serious. Gideon himself, however, only bothered to deepen his look of pity.

Emily was plucking at his sleeve. "Spencer, we should go in, we're going to be late…"

'As if it matters now,' he wanted to snap, but then an overwhelming sadness washed over him. It didn't matter now. He'd lost. He was going to be fired. Hotch and Emily too, maybe. The team would fall apart, with this simpering ego-maniac at the centre of it, uncaring.

Emily was still plucking.

"You go in ahead, Emily."

"Spencer…" She never called him Spencer at work. He gave her a look, not commanding, not pleading, but a look she understood nonetheless. She dropped his sleeve, and began towards the doors.

But before she went in, she paused and turned. "If you've lost him his job, Jason, you will be hearing from all of us. Go to Hell."

And then she disappeared. Gideon did not overtly react, but he could see the cogs turning behind his eyes, mulling over Emily's words.

He knew it was futile. Gideon was too jaded now to have felt them. But he hoped he did. He hoped they hurt.

In any case, he had a few of his own.

**_XxXxX_**


	24. Chapter 23: Job Interview

**_XxXxX_**

**Chapter Twenty Three: Job Interview**

_**XxXxX**_

"I wish I could say I was sorry," was the first thing Gideon said.

It was strange, but Reid actually believed him. The part of him that was angry wanted to dismiss the comment as mere gloating, just another thing to shove in his face (like waiting outside here for him, like calling him in the middle of the night), but the profiler in him knew better.

Gideon DID wish he was sorry. That was why he was delivering this news himself, like what he imagined was an honest man. That was why he'd called in the middle of the night, to make absolutely sure his suspicions were correct when he'd already made a career out of correct suspicions. That was why the phone call had been silent except for heavy breathing and the occasional muffled sob. That was why, even now, the famed composure of Jason Gideon was more than ever revealed to be a pose, a façade. The man was sagging under the weight of something –guilt, perhaps?—and now Reid wondered how he could have ever missed the smell, the booze smell that floated on the air between them.

The parking lot was almost empty. They were both going to be late, for sure. But what did that matter now?

"Jason," he said, forcing himself to use the other man's first name. "I asked you this once before, when you were living with me a few months ago. What happened to you after you left the BAU?"

Something shifted in the older man, like a change of gears, and Reid realized he was _not_ going to get the same non-answers. Then he began to speak. "When I wrote you that letter all those years ago, I meant it. Every word of it. But I didn't originally intend to write it. I was just going to leave."

That hurt. Somehow, even now, that hurt just a little. But he listened in silence.

Jason went on; "But I knew I couldn't do it. I wanted to get back in touch with my son –Stephen, you talked to him on the phone, of course you know Stephen—I really did…at the time. But I couldn't start that relationship with him by ending another one with the same mistakes I'd made before. So I wrote you that letter because—." he looked away, briefly, but then seemed to work back his nerve and regained eye contact. Reid wondered how anyone ever got enough steel to do that in situations like these. "Because you were like a son to me. In retrospect it probably wasn't enough."

"In some ways it was," he said, thinking of the talk Emily had given him afterwards. "But in other ways…"

"I should have waited to meet you in person, at the cabin. I should have stayed in touch. But the truth is that I hate this place. I hate this building. I hate these offices. I hate the folders with the red pictures inside them, the video tapes of men and women suffering. I hate talking to people who get enjoyment from that suffering, the serial killers and the researchers alike. Don't tell me you've never gotten enjoyment out of a case –of getting just that much closer, of discovering a new kind of trigger, a new pattern of behaviour. It kills you, but if you didn't get something in return you'd leave."

That was too much; his composure cracked: "We're helping people! Saving lives!"

"I know," he said, deflating a little. "That's what I kept telling myself, towards the end. That I was doing good, that to leave would be to do harm. That's why I collected the pictures. But then Sarah was murdered. For no other reason than to make me unhappy."

Reid flinched, remembering. He hadn't known Sarah well, but everyone was made aware of her after the Fischer King incident. She was apparently patient enough with the profiling lifestyle to stick around for quite awhile, even after a severed head showed up on their doorstep. Jason never admitted that they were romantically involved, but anyone with eyes could tell that was the case. It occurred to him now that Jason's insistence that they were just friends may have been his feeble attempt to keep her separate from them, from the violence. The same way he and Emily hardly touched each other after a particularly bad case. But then, Frank came back out of the ether, and…

"I don't think I need to explain that any further," Jason said. "After that I needed a fresh start, away from the place that was making me miserable. You were all a part of that place, even you. So I couldn't get that fresh start –not really—if I'd stayed in touch. Better to leave a sentimental letter and go, probably never to see you again. Better to sell all my things, all my birds, and live in my car awhile. See the countryside. Reconnect with life and old friends.

"Turned out my son didn't need me. He was too old by then, and I had nothing to offer him but a reminder of an old man who'd left him behind to chase bad guys. My oldest friends were either a part of this BAU –this place I wanted to escape—or were so far removed from it that I couldn't believe we'd ever been friends. They were uneducated, oblivious, charmed and intrigued by the things they saw on the evening news. It was quaint at first. It became insulting very quickly. So my bridges stayed burned. I thought I could make whole new friends if I could just find a new field, a new trade to ply in.

"But this is all I'm good at, Spencer. This is all I have. I can cook and I can watch birds, and I did for a little while, but who does that help but me? What good do those things do anyone? I'd spent my life building myself into one of the best, and now that I can't stand it anymore I've found out that there's nothing else for me. Do you know what that's like?"

"I think Rossi went through something similar," Reid said, and Jason's cheek twitched, as if a fly had landed on it. He realized too late it was a rhetorical question, that Jason didn't give a shit if Rossi could understand where he was coming from. Perhaps he felt Rossi was too commercial to truly have demons. Eager to keep the other man talking, he prompted, "So you came back. After you realized you had nothing else to offer anyone, you came back?"

"Not just yet, no," he said, wearily. "I resisted. I was depressed. The thought that doing something I despised was all I was good for…I thought of you sometimes and became jealous. Because you, Spencer, can do anything you want in the world. You're over-qualified for just about every job on the market. I'm not like that. People call me brilliant," he spat out the word, as if he was annoyed with it. "But all I am is a finely sharpened knife. Eventually just to have something to do I did some freelance work for the CIA, something else I'd sworn off but didn't have the same horrific connotations for me as the BAU…and I was great again. I knew what I was doing. The depression lifted a little. I thought maybe I could keep doing that forever –help when it suited me, to keep my conscience clear, and live my own impression of a life the rest of the time. I hadn't even considered coming back to the BAU. I was mostly living out in the country, in between motels."

Reid glanced down at the other man's strangely thinner arms, which were even now more tanned than before his disappearance. It never came up in the story, but he wondered at what point drinking became a part of the depressive cycle; out there in the dirt motels of the country, or here, after he'd committed to the task of getting Reid fired. "So what changed your mind?"

"You did."

He looked back up, startled. Jason was gazing up at him with clear pity in his eyes, but also remorse.

"Like I said, I thought about you sometimes. About how much you reminded me of Stephen. I also sometimes thought that I was glad that Stephen's life was so different from mine. But then the two of you would get mixed up and I realized that one of you WAS living my life, WAS constantly exposed to violence and horror. That I'd left you here, in this place, with a drug problem to battle on top of it all. You who could do anything you wanted in the world."

Reid began to see where this was going, and he didn't like it.

"I didn't originally come back to rejoin. I came back to convince you to leave."

**_XxXxX_**

The parking lot was empty now, the early morning sun now completely risen, heating both the wet grass and the asphalt. Reid was so late that the people waiting inside to fire him were probably checking their watches and tapping their feet. He thought of Emily; was she waiting for him, too, anxiously at her desk, smothered by the office environment and thus unable to explain to Morgan what had happened? Or was she in Strauss's office, a letter of release being pushed towards her across the desk? Where was Hotch? Where was his team?

He knew he should go in and face them all. He knew he'd have plenty of time soon to listen to Jason's so-called explanation. But no, he didn't. This was a rare occurrence. If he left now, that gear inside the broken older man would shift again, possibly forever, and the story would never be heard. So he had to stay. He had to listen. But perhaps most importantly, he had to contain his rage.

"You came to tell me to quit," he said as evenly as possible. "Even all the way back then."

"Yes."

"But you knew I wouldn't want to." He thought of the jazz lounge in New Orleans, the conversations about missing planes, the (it was so odd to think of it now) deliberate ignoring of Emily's phone calls. THAT Gideon had helped convince him to stay. Why would he do that if he himself was practically dying to leave?

"I knew you would probably need persuasion," Jason said. "But remember, I didn't know what to expect when I came back. I hadn't been following you at all, or anyone else from the team for that matter, so to me it was a good sign you were still in the same building. I left you a traumatized drug addict in the middle of alienating everyone who ever cared about you."

"I got better."

"You did, and I shouldn't have been surprised," his eyes gleamed. "But I was. I was wrong to think you couldn't handle yourself. Prentiss set me straight on that. You'll have to thank her for me.

"But you weren't entirely together either, even if you weren't in the mess I thought you'd be. You obviously had no real social life. Your friend and team-member had been shot right in front of you the same day I returned, something you blamed yourself for –something you still blame yourself for, I can see it in your eyes. I knew you would be suspended, and I was right. Your life was falling apart, Spencer. I knew I wouldn't be able to win you over with words –you'd become too independent for that—but I still had to do something."

"Emily beat you to it," he said shortly. Jason smirked in response, his remorse fading almost at once from his face, leading Spencer to think for the first time that it was just an elaborately crafted pose –but no. Even Gideon, a master manipulator, wouldn't sink so low as to pretend remorse to an equal.

"You and Prentiss," he said softly. "I never would have believed it if you'd told me when I was in the country." Then his expression became almost pleading. "But don't you see, that's just one more reason to leave this place –do you really want to be risking your life in the field when you're not just living for yourself anymore? Are you sure your relationship can handle the sorts of demons that come with profiling? Is that fair to you? Is that fair to either of you?"

"I think we can figure that out for ourselves."

"I thought that once, too."

"We're not you and Sarah."

Then, as suddenly as it began, there was nothing more to say.

"You'll understand why I did this," Jason said as Reid moved past him towards the door. "Someday you won't hate me for it."

"I don't hate you," Reid said. He wanted to add a 'but'…and could think of none, so without a word he disappeared into the BAU, leaving his former mentor standing in the sun.

**_XxXxX_**

Morgan waved him into the bullpen as soon as he stepped into sight. Reid ducked his head and quick-stepped across the room and up the steps, trying to ignore the curious looks of the office workers (who certainly had been given a lot to gossip about these last few months). As soon as he entered Rossi shut the door and dropped the blinds, sending a scathing look across the cubicles of their co-workers. All the blinds in the bullpen were shut. Not an unheard of practice, if the military or a terrorist group were involved. Less usual when concerning the love-lives of FBI members.

Reid's eyes fell to Hotch first; he was standing at the far end of the bullpen, arms crossed. "Where's Emily?" he asked, though he already had a pretty good feeling.

"She's being grilled by Strauss. Been in there ever since she stepped in. Only had time to tell us Gideon was holding you up."

'And, of course, they figured out the rest from there,' he thought, glancing around at his team. They were situated around the room in their own various modes of distress; it seemed to him not unlike the day Emily had been shot, while they were waiting for the prognosis from the doctor. Less serious, of course, but there was the same invisible but palpable net of support that was at once cast and held aloft by each of them. JJ with her stony silence; Garcia's wibbling lip; Morgan's whole body vibrating with agitation and the steady flow of disapproval emanating from Hotch, who looked as though he wondered who had dared to mess with his team. Rossi's apparent but muted rage. Not much had been said in the minutes he'd been talking to Jason, that much was obvious, but it was enough that they were all here, in this enclosed space, able to express their discontent to each other without words and without judgement.

"It was Jason who told her about Emily and I," he said, though he knew that they knew. "But I'm guessing she still hasn't heard about Hotch?"

"I'm sure if she had, I'd have been called in with Emily," Hotch said. "It's possible Jason hadn't deduced that part, but somehow I doubt it."

"Maybe he just wasn't sure. He called in the middle of last night to see…" He trailed off. It suddenly seemed too personal to reveal he'd spent the night at Emily's house. Had in fact been spending more nights at her house than at his own. His supervisory agent seemed to know not to press the issue.

"Speak of the devil, you guys," Garcia muttered. Reid looked over at their tech analyst and saw her peering between the blinds down into the offices, looking for all the word like a snooping neighbour. "Gideon just came in."

"Well if he thinks he can come up here with us he's got another thing coming," Morgan snarled, even as JJ muttered, "He'll probably just disappear down the hall like always."

"Actually he's not going anywhere," Garcia said. "He's just…waiting."

Reid sidled over to the window and peered out, bending down to Garcia height. Jason was seemingly waiting indeed, hovering near the glass doorway with a rather perturbed look on his face. Not the usual painted on serenity then, whatever that could mean.

"Maybe he's expecting to be called on?" JJ said.

"By who? Strauss or us?"

"Either way he'll have definitely noticed that we're all locked up in here. And that we're in no hurry to have him join us."

Reid was suddenly overwhelmed with the most uncharacteristic desire to give them all a very long hug (er…well, at the very least a friendly handshake). Here they all were, one of them with his hard-won career on the line because of him, the rest possibly about to lose three members of their team for same, and yet they were all on his side. In the early days of this bizarre competition he was afraid that they would come to prefer Jason –or worse, that their need to stay out of office politics would render them neutral, and therefore uncaring for the issue. But that hadn't happened. If anything, he now knew how much his team cared for him, not only as a co-worker, or as a little-brother figure to protect and coddle, but as a friend. It was clear now that everyone on the team had been rooting for him, and for a brief second he believed that perhaps he would not be fired after all.

But then Garcia gasped again, drawing their attention away from their common enemy in the glass doorway. "It's Emily!" she squeaked.

And so it was. Emerging from the hallway that led to Strauss's evil lair, like a war-veteran.

His stomach sank; his girlfriend looked visibly shaken. Pale enough to practically vanish into the darkness of her hair, with darting, nervous eyes he only saw on her when casing an ambiguously inhabited building. This was not the calm, collected Emily who could handle anything. This was an Emily who'd just been given some unfortunate news.

The group (now practically huddled around Garcia at the window, and probably looking ridiculous to any of the observant office-workers below) watched her make her progress from the hallway through the offices, past Jason, and finally up the stairs. Rossi moved to the door to let her in. She caught Reid's eye at once.

"I'm not fired, yet," she said to everyone. Then, to him: "She's waiting for you."

_**XxXxX**_

Emily made a half-hearted motion to try and squeeze his hand when he passed her out the door, but thought better of it at the last second. So she simply let him go, knowing there wasn't nothing she could do in the way of comfort for what he would be facing.

"Gideon is down there," she said tonelessly at the team, who were all looking at her as if she'd walked in on a broken leg.

"Probably waiting for Strauss," Rossi said. "No doubt he's expecting to get rehired the second Reid walks out of that room." She looked at the older agent, curiously. There was anger in his voice. There anger all over this room, but his seemed the most potent. She wondered why he cared so much, but was touched all the same.

She looked behind her through the door that nobody had bothered to close. From this angle she could just see the figure of Jason Gideon, now beginning to pace along the cusp of the BAU, not quite in and not quite out. His hands were folded behind his back, his face lowered and darkened, apparently deep in thought.

"I'm going to go talk to him," she said, before she was even aware she made the decision.

"You think that's a good idea?" Morgan said doubtfully. "No offence Emily, but you're a little emotionally compromised."

"When does that ever stop you?" she said, smirking briefly. "He's still just a co-worker. At the very least for the next few minutes, if I'm not fired. No reason for me NOT to talk to him."

"Atta girl," Rossi muttered.

"Just don't cause an incident," Hotch said. Suddenly remembering his entanglement in all this, she whipped around to look at her supervisory agent, unsure if it wouldn't be in his better interest to simply stay put. Avoid 'causing an incident.' But if he had any further qualms with her desire for a confrontation, he did not show it. Rather, he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts.

"Okay," she said, deciding to take that at face value. Turning back towards the door: "Wish me luck."

_**XxXxX**_

Strauss was, as always, already sitting when he entered her office. He remembered many months ago when he'd tried to replicate the sheer authority these sitting positions granted people like her and Hotch and Rossi; it almost made him laugh to think of it. He'd been missing the giant desk covered in accolades, for one. There was also the implicit coldness; if he'd been entering the office of a friend, she'd have risen to see him. As it was, she was once again behind that big desk with her steepled fingers and her pointed stare, awaiting him like a headmaster awaiting a naughty student.

"Dr. Reid," she said, not as a greeting so as much as the first verbal attack.

"Ma'am," he said back, trying not to sound too bitter.

"Sit."

He sat, leaning forward with his arms on his knees, fighting the urge to curl into a ball until it was all over. Would she simply fire him, he wondered, or would she draw this out under the pretext of an interview? What had Emily already told her? At once he regretted not stopping to talk to Emily; what in the world was their game plan –did they have one? Or did they simply accept the inevitable? What about Hotch?

'Don't mention Hotch unless she specifically brings it up,' he told himself, even as he had to will himself to meet Strauss's eyes without looking away. No sense dragging him through the mud if it could be avoided.

"So," Strauss said, finally breaking the silence. "You thought probation was a good time to start breaking fraternization rules, did you?"

_**XxXxX**_

Gideon stopped pacing as soon as he saw her approach, which was more or less the exact opposite of what she expected him to do. In the past he would stay in his little world as long as possible, as if he preferred it to your company. But now he was watching her intently, apparently eager to start talking.

"Spencer left to go interview Strauss," he said when she came close enough.

"It's not like you to state the obvious, Gideon," she said. The office-workers were starting to lean around their computers to listen in, and she forced herself to lower her voice, no matter how anger attempted to raise the volume.

"I'm happy for you," he said, and the twisting of his expression let her know he was aware of the irony. "Whatever happens here, that won't destroy what you two have."

"Oh, no? You don't think Strauss will force us to break up?"

"That would be juvenile. And it wouldn't solve anything."

"Honestly I don't see how any of this is going to solve anything."

Gideon started to pace again.

"He'll understand. I've done the right thing."

_**XxXxX**_

"You understand that starting inter-relationships within teams threatens the very structure of the team, never mind the chain of command?"

"Agent Prentiss and I are of equal status within the BAU, my doctorates and her greater years of experience notwithstanding," Reid said. "I would also posit that to use underhanded tactics to get your team-member into trouble threatens the structure of said team, and why didn't Gideon go to Hotch instead of directly to you? Doesn't going above his supervisors head damage the chain of command?"

For a moment he regretted even mentioning Hotch's name -would that lead to questioning he couldn't afford to answer with lies?—but she seemed to take his statement to heart, narrowing her eyes and lowering her chin onto her chest in thought.

"True," she muttered. "Gideon never has respected Aaron's authority. Several reports from several different teams account him giving orders to his supervisors, as if he were the team-leader and not them. But," her eyes shot up. "Is that really so different from what you are so often guilty of, Dr. Reid?"

He stayed quiet, having no real defense to give other than the obvious one; that his weird, impulsive decisions usually turned out for the best. But she already knew that. He could actually see it in her eyes; she kept glancing between him and a folder on the desk. No doubt the glowing report Hotch had written for him. But was it enough?

"Jason spoke to me this morning," he said. "Just before he came in, he explained everything. Why he came back, why he wants the job. I think you should hear it."

_**XxXxX**_

He said he would understand. He said he'd done the right thing.

"No, Gideon," she said, her voice monotone. "You really, really haven't."

A vein started to pulse in the older man's forehead. A sign of increased blood pressure, of tension and anxiety. So perhaps he knew after all that he was wrong?

"Do you remember when I told you to treat him like an equal, like and adult and not your yes-man?"

"Yes," he muttered. "Barely. I was pretty drunk." The candidness of this response startled her a little, but she tried not to react. "This has nothing to do with that. This is just protocol."

_"Protocol_?"

"Emily…" he stopped in his tracks again, staring her in the face. "This whole thing… isn't what I wanted. But it's done, and it will work out for the best. Think of how much easier you two will have it. The both of you are brilliant; you could get jobs anywhere you wanted in the world. You won't have to worry about the other getting shot, or kidnapped, or…you'll have peace of mind. I've done the right thing," he said again, this time with deeper conviction.

_**XxXxX**_

"So what you're saying is, Gideon is projecting his own fears and insecurities about the job onto you? To force you into leaving it 'for your own good?'"

"Yes," he said, hating the sound of that phrase. It made him feel like a child to have anything done for him 'for his own good.' Only his father ever used to do things 'for his own good.'

"And was anyone else there when you had this conversation?"

"No. Em –Agent Prentiss had already gone inside."

"So you have no proof."

"You can ask him. I don't think he'll lie. I'm not certain, but I don't think he will."

She stared at him. Then, with a sigh. "To think you two used to work so well together."

_**XxXxX**_

"Nothing I say is going to convince you of the giant asshole you've been, will it?"

"I—." But then he stopped, staring over shoulder. She looked behind her, annoyed at the interruption…

"Hotch?" she asked with surprise.

Aaron Hotchner –who until now had been holed up in the bullpen with the rest of team—was walking towards them. No, not towards them she realized –past them. He raised a hand stiffly in a 'we'll talk later' gesture, the line of his mouth firm and set. He moved down the hall and towards Strauss's office.

Gideon groaned; he'd realized what he was doing before she did.

_**XxXxX**_

The knock on the door actually made Reid jump. Strauss looked up sharply, but without any surprise in her features. Perhaps she'd already anticipated interference in what was such a deeply personal affair.

"Come in," she said in a clipped tone.

"Hotch!" he squeaked. His supervisor nodded at him, and then looked to Strauss.

"If you're almost done, I'd like to talk to you about what was written in my report."

"By all means," she answered, smiling sweetly. She made no move to dismiss Reid.

Ever fearless, Hotch pressed forward despite the forced awkwardness of the situation. "I wrote to you that Dr. Reid was occasionally impulsive and petulant, but otherwise a vital asset to the team. It is my belief that he could not be adequately replaced."

"No?"

"My entire team is standing in the bullpen, sans Gideon, waiting on bated breath for your decision, Ma'am," he said. "Not a single one of them wants to see Reid leave this team. It would not be difficult to believe that should he be expelled and Gideon to take his place, they may come to resent him despite their best efforts. The cohesiveness of the whole would be compromised."

"Aaron, are you threatening not to co-operate if I choose to keep Gideon on?"

"No, ma'am," he said. "I'm stating facts."

They glared at each other as if Reid wasn't even there, she in her chair and Hotch still standing in the doorway like some sort of gargoyle in a business suit.

"I believe I've spoken to Dr. Reid enough," she finally announced, turning only to mutter shortly at him, "Go." He jumped up quickly, eager to be out of there and among the support of his team. As he was trying to get away, he heard her say to Hotch: "Get Gideon. I want to speak to the two of you about what is –and isn't—in these reports."

_**XxXxX**_

He found Emily standing –of all places—at Jason's side, looking more annoyed than he'd seen her in a long time. Jason stepped forward like he was going to offer consolation.

"I'm not fired yet," he said. "And Strauss wants to talk to you and Hotch."

Surprised and apparently perturbed by this development, Jason went off down the hall. The office-workers had, by now, more or less completely abandoned their tasks, save for random bursts of typing whenever anyone had to look their way. Reid wondered if everyone knew about him and Emily now. He turned to her, feeling resigned.

"Where should we wait?"

She took him by the hand and led him into an adjacent hall out of everyone's sight, where the near-retirees tended to be placed. There was a row of chairs along the wall, for people waiting for consultations, and they took two of them and sat down side-by-side, her hand clasped over his. They didn't speak to each other, and showing their incredible aptitude for reading people, none of the rest of the team came to check on them.

It seemed to Reid, sitting there with Emily for that half-an-hour, that whatever happened –if he was fired, if they both were fired, if they could stay—this at least wouldn't change. Well, it would change –the dynamic they'd carried so far would be gone. They'd no longer be equals in the military sense of the word. But it would adapt; they would adapt. He thought about the question that nagged both of them –would they choose each other or the job…

They heard footsteps, after awhile. Hotch? Strauss? Morgan given into his curiousity at last? They looked up, but did not release each other's hands.

It was Jason, who had apparently been looking for them. He was calmer now, Reid noticed with a sinking of his heart.

"They want to speak with you again," Jason said to the both of them, and then, to Prentiss alone: "Thank you."

Reid looked at Emily curiously, wondering what she could have done or said to cause gratitude on Jason's part. But she looked just as bewildered as he felt. When he looked back, Jason was already turned away from them, moving down into the halls of the building.

They walked back to Strauss's office in the same silence, hands still held, and he felt conspicuous and a bit like he was on a death march as they passed by the bullpen. He saw Garcia poking her head out the door only to be pulled back in a pale, insistent hand. JJ, no doubt, and he was grateful; he was in no mood to be gawked at, even by well-meaning tech-analysts.

Hotch was still in Strauss's office, and two more chairs had magically appeared. They sat.

"Well," Strauss said, flatly. "I suppose you might as well tell them Aaron."

They looked at Hotch.

"Gideon resigned."

_**XxXxX**_

"He…resigned?" she heard Reid say, the disbelief nearly dripping from his voice.

"Yes," said Strauss, who was clearly extremely annoyed with this development. "After putting everyone through all this, he just decides to up and leave. I guess I can't say it was out-of-character."

"But…why?" Reid asked. His hand, around hers, was becoming increasingly tight.

"Oh, who even knows with that man?" she said bitterly. "The question now is, where does that leave _you._"

"You can't fire Reid now," Emily blurted out. "No one can replace him. Even Gideon was barely qualified."

"I wouldn't say that, precisely, but if he tries to come back again I'll certainly tell him where he can go." The anger in Strauss was amazing. It seemed she was more offended by having her time wasted than anything else. "But I agree that makes the good doctor's continued employment a good deal more likely."

She felt Hotch stiffen on one side of her, and Reid falling loose on the other. Both men bracing themselves, in their own way, for whatever requirements Strauss had left.

Their superior went on: "Obviously it would be more destructive to separate you two now, so that's not an option. But I can't just start overlooking the fraternization rule for every agent who decides to take another out for coffee. So. What remains is just one question…"

Strauss leaned forward; Emily did too, without thinking.

"I need to know, in no uncertain terms, what the nature of this relationship is."

_**XxXxX**_

_A/N: Just one chapter left you guys! See you next Tuesday._


	25. Chapter 24: Home

_**XxXxX**_

** Chapter Twenty Four: Home**

** _XxXxX_**

Vegas was significantly less glamorous in the middle of the day, Emily thought, but just as packed with people. This was why their taxi was moving so slowly, inching through the throngs of traffic. It didn't bother her particularly; she wasn't a fan of Vegas as a city (she tended to…over-indulge…in Vegas), so she was in no hurry to hit the Casinos or bars or what have you. She was here for just one reason.

"This is ridiculous," Spencer muttered from where he was sitting by her left side. "If we'd just taken the back roads we'd have been there half an hour ago."

"Yeah, well, most people aren't natives, hon." she said lightly, reaching over to give his arm a gentle squeeze. "They don't know this place like you do."

"But who thinks cutting through the tourist traps is a good idea? On a _Saturday_?" he grumbled. He was being grumpy and passive-aggressive. Nerves, no doubt. As much as she hated to see him anxious, she was almost glad that he was being so vocal about it. It was a good distraction from her own anxiety.

"We should be there soon," she said, trying her best to sound calm. "What time did you tell the Doctor?"

"Just that we'd be there in the early afternoon."

"Ah, see, then we literally can't be late. No specific time."

He didn't say anything, because of course they both knew being late wasn't what he was worried about.

When they finally did pull up in front the clinic, 'early' afternoon was dangerously close to 'late' afternoon. Spencer gave the driver a healthy tip despite this.

"I've memorized his license plate. We're never hiring that guy again," he said as they watched the cab retreat. Then they both turned and faced the clinic.

The two of them stood in front of the sliding doors together, gazing up at the building for what felt like a long time. Neither of them said anything, and even though she knew she should, Emily couldn't bring herself to take the first step forward.

"Maybe we should go back to the Hotel," Spencer blurted out. "This might be a little sudden for her, and I don't want her to say anything…I don't want her to come off wrong to you…"

She listened quietly. They had no intention of turning around, but she felt she needed to let him get this off his chest.

"It's just that she can be a little, um, hysterical. She says things she doesn't mean, or hits herself. She doesn't take change in my life very well…"

"Didn't the doctor say she was having a good week?"

"That can change on a dime," he said flatly.

"Well, she won't scare me off. I promise."

He smiled weakly at her. "I know. I just want her to…"

"Approve?"

"Is that the word? I guess it must be."

"What about your letters?" she asked, with sudden interest. They'd been together for almost six months now, and she knew he wrote letters to his mother very frequently. Surely she'd come up in at least a few of them?

"I talk about you, but she doesn't respond to those parts. It's like she didn't see them. That's fairly typical."

Now she was getting nervous. Diana Reid was really a blank slate to her, then. She could literally expect almost any reaction, and not all of them good. A sudden urge to turn and run all the way back to the hotel was starting to overtake her; it was one thing to be introduced to your significant other's family, but usually they weren't _actually_ crazy.

Ill, she reminded herself, a little ashamed. Not crazy.

"We've come this far," she said, sounding a lot braver than she felt. "Come on."

Reid hesitated…and then nodded, and they stepped forward. The glass doors slid open soundlessly, and they ventured inside together.

They'd been sitting in the common room having a quiet conversation (about what, who knew, Emily was only half-thinking about what she was saying she was so nervous), when Dr. Norman returned with Diana. Immediately she stopped breathing; this was it.

Diana Reid was looking between her and Spencer quickly, as if she couldn't decide which one to focus on. Her lips were pressed together and her eyes hard. She and the doctor came to a stop before them.

"Shall I leave you three alone?" Dr. Norman asked Spencer, casting a wary glance in Emily's direction. Spencer nodded and waved him off. Then they were sitting opposite this blond, disheveled woman whose opinion mattered more than anyone's at the moment.

Unexpectedly, it was Diana who spoke first. "So you're Emily?" she asked. The both of them nodded in unison, and she stuck out her bony hand. "Spencer's told me about you. So pleased to finally meet you. It's about time he brought you to meet his own mother."

She shot her son a slightly withering look, but the tension was gone. In her own way, she approved.

_**XxXxX**_

Early on Monday morning Emily turned the key to her brownstone and let the two of them in; she had to push the door a little harder than usual to slide the pile of boxes across the floor. Spencer didn't have much in the way of actual furniture or clothes to bring with him, but he had more than enough books to fill as many moving boxes as a family of five. Morgan complained about as much when they enlisted the team's help with the move, he, Rossi and JJ carting boxes out of the tiny apartment while Garcia and Hotch went over the list of things to sell with Spencer. She figured one more day of work would be enough to finish off the process, provided of course her own bookshelves didn't collapse under the weight of it all.

"I'm going to go check the mail," she said as Reid disappeared into the kitchen to start some coffee, and she turned back out the door. Her postbox was just a little ways down the street, and she wrapped her coat tighter around her shoulders as she hurried along, snow falling gently down through the air around her.

There was only one letter in their box when she opened it, and she snatched it and glanced at the front. It was to Spencer, and the loopy, meticulous handwriting was all too familiar.

She bit her lip, frozen to the spot. They hadn't seen nor heard from Gideon again in the months since the meeting with Strauss. It was like his first disappearance all over again, and now here was the final goodbye letter to finish off the impression. Perhaps.

Would Spencer even want to read this? He didn't talk about Gideon much, although she noticed that when he did he continued to refer to him as 'Jason,' whereas before he was always called, somewhat honorifically, by his surname. It did not take much of a profiler to figure out why that could be. Anytime he DID talk about his former mentor was cool-headed, however, his rage perhaps tempered by the fact that Gideon had thrown in the towel, in the end… but would this letter mess that up?

Furthermore, how did Gideon even know that they were living together now? Was he keeping tabs on them, somehow? Did he have a mole within the FBI? It wasn't as if they'd kept their decision to move into her house much of a secret in the past few months…

She shuddered at the idea of being spied on, but tucked the letter into her jacket. She'd give it to him later today, after the team had come and gone. He was looking forward to today, no sense getting it off to an awkward start.

_**XxXxX**_

"You guys, I think this is the last thing!"

Morgan was crouched on the floor amid a pile of empty boxes and bubble-wrap, a huge tome in his hands. The rest of the team (including baby Henry, who was sitting placidly in JJ's lap where she was taking her break in the corner) was situated around the room, stuffing books into already super-stuffed shelves. Reid himself had nothing left to do, and instead stood in the middle with his hands hanging at his sides, amazed and touched by their continued help. Morgan stood up, a huge grin across his handsome features.

"An Advanced Anthology of 21st Century Existentialism," he read off the cover of the book in his hands. "Kid, you need some new hobbies."

"It was for school," he said defensively.

"Required reading?"

"Er…well, it wasn't on the course list persay, but…"

Morgan shook his head, amazed but apparently not at all surprised. "'Aight, everyone else put their last books away?"

"Barely," Hotch said, from where he was standing in front of a bookcase with his palms out, as if he were afraid it were about to explode.

"Then this will be the LAST last one. As soon as this gets put somewhere, you're officially moved in," he said to Reid. He looked around the room, and then decisively stuck the book in the middle of Emily's coffee table. "It will make the perfect tea tray. Congrats!"

Unexpectedly everyone swarmed him in a rather disjointed group hug, having to lean over boxes as they did so. Only JJ refrained, standing up with Henry on her hip, smiling wryly at the proceedings.

"This calls for a drink!" Rossi announced, and everyone broke apart. "Emily! Have you got any champagne?"

"Have I got any champagne?" Emily mimicked from in the kitchen, where she was working on dinner. "It's like you don't know me at all."

"So how's it feel to have a house again?" Morgan asked, wrapping an arm around his shoulder while they walked into the kitchen.

"It's not like I've been living on the streets all this time, Morgan."  
"Yeah, but it's _home_ now, y'know?" he paused. "How in the world are you ready for this? It's only been a few months."

"We just are," he said for what felt like the thousandth time.

Morgan stopped entirely now, and waited until everyone else had filed into the next room. Then, under his breath, "Listen, you know I'm behind you and Emily every step. An' I know I've been harassing you about this for weeks. But _I_ gotta know that my friends aren't just doing this to please Strauss."

He wasn't even fazed. It was an argument both he and Emily had been listening to ever since that last meeting. Strauss had asked what the nature of their relationship was, and they replied that it was in no way a casual affair. She felt uneasy about that answer, but had to take their word for it. They announced their intention to move in together less than a week later. Some people found this suspicious, and had staged mini-interventions much like Morgan was doing now (Hotch included). It was true; the bureau had every right to be suspicious of couples who casually dated, but people who lived together under one roof were, in this day and age, to be treated with near-equal status as that of a married couple. To behave otherwise was considered archaic, and more importantly, 'politically-incorrect,' something the politician in Strauss couldn't abide. She couldn't touch them, now.

It was even true that this immunity did take a part –perhaps even a large part—in their decision. But it was not the main driving point. Not even close.

"My answer hasn't changed," he said. "Honestly, Derek, I'm happy. We both are. This isn't scary to me like you think it is."

Morgan was examining his eyes –no doubt looking for signs of hesitance or dishonesty—but Reid knew he wouldn't find any. Everyone knew he was a terrible liar, so if he appeared to be telling the truth, he was. Morgan turned away with a wistful sigh.

"I envy you, man…I couldn't be that sure about something like this in a thousand years. Especially not at your age."

"Well, I am a genius. I generally know what I'm doing."

The older man smirked, and then pulled him into the kitchen, where JJ was waiting with two glasses of champagne for them.

**_XxXxX_**

It was just after ten thirty when everyone had finally gone home. Emily closed the door after Garcia and Morgan, the ones who'd stayed the longest (JJ and Hotch left first, both with their sons to think about and, in JJ's case, an eternally patient husband waiting at home) and pressed her forward against the window, breathing deep. It had been an exhausting day, and work was starting back up tomorrow after their few days off. It was kind of everyone to schedule their days off all at once (Sam's team took over their duties for the day). Rest was needed.

Reid was waiting in the living room for her, and she wanted nothing more than to crawl into his arms and just talk, about the day, about the weekend in Vegas, about how in the world they were going to make their bookshelves functional again (she may have to convert one of her guestrooms into a library, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it). But there was one thing that had to be done first.

She walked over to her coat where it was hanging, and reached into her pocket. Gideon's letter, slightly crumpled from it's time buried under the jackets of half the profilers in the BAU, still needed to be delivered. It wasn't something she looked forward to; her lover was in such a good mood, today. He'd even gotten to play with Henry. She gripped the letter tighter, and hoped Gideon had the good sense not to write anything too distressing.

Spencer was sitting on the couch with his feet up on the table, like she'd expected, leaning his head back with his eyes closed. Completely relaxed, completely exhausted. She cleared her throat and he looked at her blearily.

"Something came in the mail for you," she said, sitting down next to him. He took the letter from her and scanned the front.

"This is from Jason."

"I know."

"That's…unexpected."

There was a three second pause where Emily wasn't sure how he was going to react, and then he started tearing at the sides like it was any other piece of mail. He unfolded the sheet of paper within and she sat patiently, resisting the urge to read it over his shoulder. It only took two seconds before he actually snorted out loud.

"What? What is it?" He passed it to her and she read out loud.

"'To avoid repeating past mistakes'…and then he gives you a number?" Spencer nodded, even as she turned the paper over looking for more writing. "He sent you his _phone number_?"

"We talked about how last time he didn't even call when he disappeared," Spencer said, without an ounce of distress in his voice. "What's interesting to me is that he sent me HIS number, instead of just calling. If he knows I live here now then he obviously knows the number."

"He left the choice to speak to him again up to you."

"So it would seem."

"That's…progress, I guess?"

To that, Spencer seemed to have nothing to say. The hand holding the letter dropped into her lap as she looked at him, searching for a way to enter the conversation she felt they should have.

"Are you…going to call him?"

"I might. I don't know, it's hard to be sure about anything to do with him. I don't think HE'S even sure about anything he does," he took the letter out of her hands and placed it on the table, ending the talk. It was the sort of assertive move she couldn't imagine him making when she first met him but was now becoming increasingly common. "But it doesn't matter right now. What matters is that I'm here, now, and we don't have to live in a pile of boxes anymore."

She laughed and leaned in to kiss him as he moved towards her. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and propped his chin on the top of her head, and she could feel in his body that he was completely relaxed. Embraces like this hadn't put him on edge in such a long time; it was hard to think back to the days when he would shy away from a handshake, back in the days when all they had in common was crime and chocolate. But of course, that wasn't all they had in common, was it? To think it had taken all this to figure that out.

Half an hour later JJ called and let them know they would probably be leaving on a case tomorrow, so they were advised to prepare their go-bags. "Sorry for kicking you out of your new place so soon, Reid," she said. "The case is in Alaska, so this might be a long trip."

After the phone was hung up, Emily stood and took Spencer by the hand and led him upstairs to their room. They would prepare for the case later, of course, but right now –and probably for many years to come—they would take refuge against such things when they could.

**_XxXxX_**

THE END.

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who stuck with this story through all the delays. Thanks to all the readers and all the reviewers especially. This is the single longest thing I've written, and your kind words made it easier to keep going when I might otherwise have stopped. And thanks for the constructive criticism, too!_

_I've had a lot of fun with this story and I hope you liked at least some of it, dear reader. If even a sentence of it gave you some sort of enjoyment, than I consider this a success. Happy fanfictioneering!_


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